HELLBLAZER:DCF
by shaxberd
Summary: John Constantine. Con man, trickster, and magus. Part-time occultist & full-time smart arse. The future finds him changed, yet much the same, and still very much alive.
1. It's a Dog's Life

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**Dateline: London**

The UN offices in London were considered a work of architectural genius, the perfect blend of history, tradition, and technology. All of the building's electronic security systems were completely unobtrusive, molded into the faux woodwork, marbled floors, and painted ceilings. However, the suited UN security officers were another matter entirely.

They paced the length and breadth of the building at all hours, always alert and always on their guard, and the two directly-assigned to Western Eurasia's UN representative were the best of the best. Like the palace guards of old, they stood at either side of Lord Patterson's office, speechless and motionless. For all intents and purposes, they were dead to the world, automatons who answered only to the beck and call of the most powerful man in the territory, the UN representative in charge of all of Western Eurasia.

Inside the office, Lord Charles Patterson IV was examining a holographic display of the entire world. All of Western Eurasia was graphically-displayed in red. Bits of red also dotted parts of all the other territories and the oceans as well. His influence was spreading, and he had eyes and ears all over the world. Indeed, he was positioned to, perhaps, become the most powerful man in the entire United Nations.

Unfortunately, even he had people that he had to answer to, a debt that had to be paid. Indeed, failure would require that he pay the ultimate price. Not his life. Not even his family. Nor even his power. The price of failure would be his immortal soul. Turning to admire a portrait of his long-deceased father, he speaks aloud, cursing the price that always comes with power.

"Where in the world could he be hiding? Decades have come and gone, but still there hasn't been even a rogue sighting. Not one word. Not one peep," he said, wondering how his father was currently faring in the lower levels of hell, a fate that also awaited him should he fail in his mission to find, capture, and destroy just one man. Cursing, he slammed his fist onto the top of his desk with enough force to make the holographic display cut out and disappear from view.

"Where in the world is John Constantine?"

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #1**  
(Year One, Part One)

_"It's a Dog's Life"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Tommy Hancock

**NorAm: New York City - NorAm Plaza**

The night was an unusually warm one in New York City. Rumors abounded about the recent destruction of the remains of the Statue of Liberty, and the people of New York City had good reason to be concerned. The possibility that additional conflicts would erupt between the Justice League and new bands of metahumans was quite real and very frightening to most. In response to the rising public concern, the N.Y.P.D. was stationing police officers throughout the city, and Charlie Monahan was one such police officer, working the late shift in what was once called Times Square.

A den of iniquity even in its heyday, very little had changed, even after more than a century of violent, social upheaval. Times Square was still little more than a breeding ground for vagrants and drunks, just as it had been in the late twentieth century, and Charlie was keeping a watchful eye on one such derelict now. The only difference was that in 2112, they called it NorAm Plaza. Good old Charlie had been forced to introduce himself to most of society's refuse during his career, and as far as he was concerned, not one of them was worth the spit he used to shine his boots. But the man currently stumbling his way into the alley nearby made all those before him seem like distinguished gentlemen in comparison.

His hair and beard grown long past his own waistline, he looked like he'd spent the better part of his forty odd years in the gutter. He was obviously inebriated and singing both loudly and off-key.

"...Saints and sinners raw beginners...lipstick traces and tv dinners..."

Horrible to look at, the smell was even worse, and the unusual heat was making him even more pungent. Even worse, it looked like the disgusting little bugger was going to plant himself down right next to his patrol vehicle before passing out for the night.

"Hey, you! Bugger off somewhere else! It's bad enough I have to be assigned to this God-forsaken place every night without having to wrinkle my nose at the likes of you!"

The drunkard didn't even spare a glance back in Monahan's direction. Instead, he just plopped himself down of the pavement and leaned his back against the wall. Only after belching long and loudly did he bother to take the time to turn his bloodshot eyes toward the patrol car and acknowledge the police officer's presence by extending the middle digit of his right hand.

"Up yours," he said with a hoarse voice and an evil grin.

"Right. I guess I'll have to teach you a little respect for the law, then."

"Better than you have tried, ya shite bastard."

Monahan brandished his stunstick, and gripping it with relish, proceeded to beat the drunkard mercilessly. A loud crack was clearly audible as the weapon connected with the base of the vagrant's skull. He was killed almost instantly, but he'd been far too drunk to feel any pain. Even so, Officer Monahan continued to beat him for several minutes, just to be certain he'd taught him a proper lesson. The lifeless body convulsed as electrical charges ran rampant through it.

"That'll teach you. And in case you hadn't heard, there are laws against that kind of language."

He emphasized his statement by kicking his fallen opponent hard in the ribs and spitting on his back. And when the vagrant didn't moan or groan, he kicked him again.

"Aw, crap. Why'd you have to go and die on me, you lousy little piece of shit. You know, they just don't pay me enough to deal with this kind of crap. Damn it, sometimes I wonder why I ever bothered to become a cop in the first place."

Mumbling, he grabbed the corpse by the cleanest parts of its soiled trench coat and dragged it into the alley, hiding it behind a dumpster. Let the morning patrol deal with it, he thought to himself. His own shift was almost over, and it was high time he was on his way back to the station for some much needed coffee and donuts. Feeling sorry for himself, he shook his head, clucked his tongue, and said the same thing he always said whenever this kind of thing happened.

"Why does this shit always have to happen to me?"

**The Multiverse: Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell**

John awoke to a sea of pallid faces, the visages of the forlorn and forgotten. His eyes were greeted with the relieved expressions of those whose many sufferings had ended, those who waited patiently in hopes of something better, and those who dreaded something worse. But that description wasn't really accurate.

He no longer had eyes, not in this realm, this way station between heaven and hell on the shores of Death's realm. Neither did he have to deal with emotions brought on by the chemical reactions of the body. Indeed, he had no physical body to force such burdens upon him. No one did in this realm, but despite this fact, he was still an outcast, even in this place of sublime tranquility.

Why? Because his worldly sufferings were not quite yet at an end, and all those gathered here knew it and would have absolutely nothing to do with him. Well, all of them except one.

"Hello, John. Long time no see, eh?" The words were spoken by a man of comical appearance. He was short, bearded, and fat, and dressed in fashions that had gone out of style in Britain centuries ago.

"Hello, Abel. Cain been having another go at you again?" asked John, looking over Abel's newest set of injuries. Apparently, he'd been stabbed with several hundred dinner forks.

"Yeah," said Abel wistfully. "I spoiled another one of his mysteries, gave away another one of my secrets. I'm not supposed to do that, and it's Cain's job to see that I don't. After all, he is my keeper. But it hurts to be punished by someone you love."

John thought to himself that if Abel had had a body at that moment, it would be shedding tears. It made him sorry for Abel, but it also conflicted with what could only be called his principles. "If you ask me, Cain's just a big bully, one that needs to be taught a lesson. He might not beat on ya so often if he was on the receiving end of it just once."

"Oh, no!" responded Abel quickly. "I would never want to see Cain hurt. Besides, no one ever will. He has this mark on his head, see, saying that God will punish anyone who hurts him. No one can ever hurt Cain."

John just smirked. "I'd not be so certain o' that," he said, not looking at Abel. Instead, he locked eyes with an approaching figure wearing a trench coat and hat. "I don't think that blasted mark or rule applies to you. After all, you're Cain's brother. And that makes you his keeper."

While Abel pondered the implications of John's words, the strange figure approached. "Constantine, I need to speak with you. I require your aid and would have your assistance. Will you render me aid?" he asked, his face expressionless, yet somehow both intent and distracted simultaneously.

"What do you want, Occult. Or should I call you something else?" he asked with a sneer. "Maybe I should call you Richard? Or maybe I should call you Dick? I suppose I can take it for granted you don't want my help throwing another tea party. You putting together another trench coat brigade? This is my quality time, Occult. Tell me what you want and leave me the hell alone."

"Constantine, I have new duties and responsibilities to which I must attend. It would seem that you have already guessed their nature," he continued, somehow doing so without voicing either surprise or resentment in his tone.

"These duties will take me to times and places other than this one. I must focus my attention elsewhere and elsewhen, and I would ask that you serve as my seneschal here in the time and place through which your own journey takes you."

Incredulous, John just stared back at Occult's expressionless face. "Let me get this straight. You want me to be your bloody butler? Bugger off. Pick some other berk to work for you."

"A great event is approaching, a melding of magic itself and a war between the forces of heaven and hell. Soon, all of us will be asked or forced to choose sides, and those who choose not to take sides will require powerful allies to survive. Even you. I ask you one last time, will you serve as my seneschal."

Statement rather than query, Occult knew that Constantine didn't really have any choice in the matter. Terrible times were coming, and not even John Constantine could hope to remain in hiding much longer. The words he had spoken were true, and Constantine would indeed require his aid to survive the maelstrom of events in which he would soon become embroiled.

Still, despite all of his new-found powers as the Phantom Stranger's successor, he did not know whether he was doing John a service or a disservice. He could foresee only that it had to be done, that this choice was most likely the lesser of two evils.

"Bloody hell."

**NorAm: New York City - NorAm Plaza**

John Constantine woke up battered and bruised in both body and spirit with one mother of a hangover. The bruises he didn't care about, they would go away soon enough, but the hangover was another matter entirely. It was a nasty one, and he could tell that it would be with him for some time.

He awoke to the sensation of a tongue being rubbed across his face like sandpaper. The slobber was bad, and the breath was worse. "Aagh! Stop licking me! What have you been doing? Drinking out of the loo? Do us all a favor and brush some time, will you?"

"I would be glad to consider it if you would take the time to bathe at least once a month. Honestly, I've tasted better toilets, and you should be grateful that I was concerned enough about your well-being to attempt to wake you."

John cracked his eyes open to find a dog standing over him, his eyes stabbed by the neon lights of the city. No one else was anywhere to be seen. Friendly and intelligent-looking, the dog sat there panting, head cocked to one side as if to express curiosity.

"Well, where the hell are you, then? Eh? Come out where I can see you, and let's have us a chat." John looked from left to right, in search of someone hidden in the shadows, but finding nothing. And only when he finally gave up did the dog speak.

"What in the world are you looking for? I'm sitting right in front of you," said the dog, glancing from side to side to make sure that no one else was there. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that the human before him must be somewhat slow. "Yes, the dog."

John blinked a few times before coming to the conclusion that he wasn't imagining things and that it wasn't knock on the head or the bad liquor; the dog actually was talking to him. He groaned audibly, wondering why weird things always had to happen to him, not much liking any of the answers he came up with.

"Are you alright, then? I saw that policeman beat you and leave you for dead. I daresay I thought you were dead until I saw you start twitching again. Anyway, just what was all that about if you don't mind my asking?"

John turned the corner of his mouth up into a wry smile and chuckled mirthlessly. "That bit of fuss and bother was about the two constants of the universe screwing with me again. And don't be believin' any of that guff by that Woody Allen bloke. Death doesn't always come for you, and not everyone has to pay taxes."

"Well, yes, I'm quite aware of that, actually. Death and I have met socially on more than one occasion, and she's been kind enough to agree not to come for me. And I've never been asked to pay any taxes as far as I can recall."

"Well, that makes two of us, then."

John fumbled around in his pockets for a cigarette and struck a match. He lit up and took a long, slow drag. His nerves settled quickly, and his hangover eased a bit. He became so relaxed that he almost forgot that he was in the middle of a conversation with a talking dog.

"Disgusting habit. Those things will kill you, you know?"

"Not necessarily," said John, his eyes intent on those of the strange dog before him.

"Oh, yes. We have established that, haven't we. Anyway, what are the two constants of the universe, then? I mean, if they aren't death and taxes, then they must be something else."

"Hmph." John had never thought of dogs as logical creatures, but then again, most people thought humans were logical so he really shouldn't have been surprised to find out otherwise. And the dog deserved an answer.

"Well, that's easy. The first is that no matter where you go or what you do, there will always be wankers like that fat arse cop around screwin' with people's lives. The second is that no matter how many wankers you get rid of, there'll always be at least one more so you'll never be rid of them."

"I see. And I suppose you've figured out the meaning of life as well?" asked the dog.

"Of course. Do what you can to not become a wanker yourself."

The dog paused a moment to consider what he'd just been told. There were quite a few flaws in his newfound companion's logic, but he decided not to argue any of them. It seemed rather clear to him that whether or not these suppositions could be held as universal truths, they probably were true of the human who had just spoken them. As such, he decided to extend his paw instead.

"Well met, then. My name is Barnabas. And you are?"

John looked Barnabas in the eyes, taking a few moments to decide how he was going to respond. He wasn't one to give out his name freely, not anymore leastways, and he was pretty sure he shouldn't change that. Still, Barnabas seemed like an alright sort, something hard to come by in a universe overpopulated with wankers. Finally, he took the extended paw respectfully and smiled cheerily, something he hadn't done in quite some time.

"Right, then. Glad to meet you, too, Barnabas. My name's John. John Constantine."

"Excellent. Now that we've gotten the preliminary formalities over with, I must insist that you do something about your personal hygiene. I would like to be your friend, but my nose is much more sensitive than that of the policeman who just 'killed' you. Think about it."

John smirked good-naturedly, running his fingers through his beard and getting them stuck in tangles of hair and gum. "Anything for a mate."

**NorAm: New York City - The Waldorf Astoria Hotel**

Barnabas walked into the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria behind John and sat himself down by the doorway. Unlike other great establishments that had lost their former grandeur over the passing of the centuries, the Waldorf Astoria had remained a glamorous institution. He watched as John approached the hotel desk and smiled at the clerk, cocking his head to one side. He stared the clerk right in the eyes, and within the span of a few heartbeats, the clerk passed John a set of keys, without even asking him to sign the register.

John had gotten in just like he'd said he would, even though logic demanded that things should have turned out otherwise. Barnabas had suggested the Y.M.C.A., but John had insisted on something with style. As he made his way to the elevator, John gave Barnabas a smug look, bidding his approach. Barnabas got up and walked into the elevator with John; strangely enough, no one objected to his presence. The elevator continued upwards until it reached the Penthouse Suite. John unlocked the door, and they walked in.

"Alright, I'll break the silence," said Barnabas, turning John a curious eye. "Exactly how did you get this hotel to give you its best suite in your disheveled state, let alone with a dog in tow?"

"How do ya think? A little magic is all. What else."

John walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack. Barnabas jumped onto the bed and pawed the remote control, activating the holovid projector. The sound of Barnabas flipping through channels mingled with the sound of clothes hitting the floor and a hot shower starting up.

Barnabas lowered the volume after turning to the Arts & Entertainment channel, where a holovized version of Les Miserables was playing. The suite could almost be considered palatial, a very pleasant change compared to life on the street. "I take it you're not talking about pulling bunnies out of hats, right? But if you know magic like that, then why live on the street?"

A momentary pause was filled with the sound of a pair of scissors shearing away. "A lifestyle choice is all. Old habits die hard. 'Sides which, magic tends to draw unwanted attention. I try not to use it too often."

"Then why'd you use it now?"

"Like I said, anything for a mate. Anyways, I'd have had to use it to get in anywhere looking the way I do so I thought I might as well go for the best. Why? Don't you approve?" asked John.

"You say that as if you expect me to complain," said Barnabas, his tone jovial.

"Not at all," said John, the sound of an electric razor humming in the background. "Do ya mind if I call you Barney?"

"I'm a talking dog, not a talking purple dinosaur," said Barnabas, his tone mildly irate.

"How about Barn, then? It's just that I'm not much for formal first names is all," said John as if by way of apology.

"Very well, then. If you must call me something other than Barnabas, then Barn I can live with."

The sound of water splashing could be heard as John stepped into the shower. He sighed and moaned in pleasure and contentment as the hot water ran over his skin, washing away the mark left behind by the past few decades. He raised his voice to be heard over the sound of the running water.

"Unusual name, that, for a dog, even a talking one. How'd ya get it?" asked John, the steam improving the hoarseness of his voice.

"It was given to me by my first master. He's the one that taught me to talk like humans do. He needed a good talking to at times."

"Sounds like an interesting fella. What was his name?"

"He didn't have a name so much as a title. I just called him 'Master' but others called him Destruction. Of the Endless. A kind enough Master, even if he was a bit too dim-witted and undisciplined. Or should I say too human?" he asked, his voice somewhat wistful. "I miss him sometimes."

John knew better than to go around asking questions about anyone in that family without permission, especially Destruction, and decided to change the subject. "Your first master, eh? Who was the second?"

"Oh, my second master was his sister, the Lady Del. Delirium of the Endless. People used to say that it was a tragedy that she had once been Delight, but I always thought her most delightful. I think I have her to thank for not having died yet."

"How so?" asked John, his curiosity piqued despite his own better judgement now that yet another member of the Endless had entered the picture.

"I don't know. All I do know is that she had to go away somewhere with her brothers and sisters. Her last words to me were that she had to go away but might come back and couldn't take me with but wanted me here because she might come back and always be her doggy pretty please okay. Or something like that. Anyway, as far as I'm concerned, she is still my master, and she will come back to me someday. But I must admit that I've been waiting for quite some time. Even longer in dog years," he joked. "But one mustn't lose hope."

"Why the hell not?" asked John, his tone somewhat irate. Life had rarely been kind to him, and his own hopes had been dashed far too often.

"Because then I would become like John Constantine and stop taking care of myself properly. I am a dog, you know, so I probably spend as much time living on the street as you do, but even I smell better. Life is a struggle. It always has been, and it always will be. Giving up on that struggle does no one any good. Remember that."

The sound of the shower running came to an end, and in a few moments, a figure that Barnabas assumed to be John Constantine emerged, dressed in a hotel bathrobe. His face was cleanly shaven, and his hair was cut short to medium length. Barnabas found it difficult to associate this clean-cut figure with the one that he'd originally befriended.

"I'll do that," said John, using a towel to rub his hair dry.

"You know, I take it back. Grow back the beard and hair and let yourself go. It suits you much better."

John scowled a bit before giving way to laughter, an action that reminded Barnabas of his first master. Seeing this, he did something he only did while in the company of those he truly cared for. He wagged his tail.

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #1_ -


	2. Ghosts of the Past

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #2**  
(Year One, Part Two)

_"Ghosts of the Past"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Tommy Hancock

**November 2, 2035: London, Funeral Parlor**

The wake was over in less than an hour. The deceased didn't have many friend and fewer living relatives who cared. That meant he was penniless when he died with a mound of debts besides. It was a sad affair, and the guests that actually showed up quickly made excuses to leave. It was raining that day, cold and miserable even by London standards, and the gloom was oppressive.

When all of the guests had left, a lone individual walked into O'Connor's funeral parlor and stood before the urn to pay his respects. Nowadays, only the rich were actually buried, and everyone else was cremated, one of the few services freely rendered by the state.

"Sorry about the piss poor turnout, Chas. You deserved better."

John Constantine pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his trench coat pocket and lit up. He took a drag and closed his eyes, offering his deceased friend a moment of silence. When he opened his eyes, the room seemed a little darker and a little quieter. He paid it no notice until the smell of brimstone touched his nostrils, finally penetrating the masking scent of tobacco.

John whirled around to find a man seated comfortably in the rearmost seat. He had long, dark hair, and he was wearing a black Armani suit in a style that hadn't been made since before the turn of the century. A playful smirk was on his lips, and a baleful hatred was in his eyes.

"You! What the devil are you doing here?"

"What a curious expression. I have never really understood it's purpose, and I'm not really sure why you, of all people, would use it. But surely the great John Constantine can guess why the Devil might choose to make an appearance."

The Devil leveled his gaze malevolently at the man he hated most, whose very continued existence was a testament to his own greatest failures and defeats. He was strangely pleased to find that anger reflected back at him.

"You're here for Chas, then? Is that it? Well, you can't have him you berk! Leave me friends alone!"

Mildly annoyed, the First of the Fallen twisted his lips in displeasure. Even he could not tell whether Constantine was just angry, being stupid, or purposely trying to insult him.

"Save your threats, Constantine. What interest would I have in ownership of this worthless soul? Your friend was far too mundane to draw the attention of even the lowliest demon in Hell. I have not come for him but for you."

Hearing this, John was at once relieved for Chas, afraid for himself, and curious as to what the Devil was upto this time.

"Good luck to you, then, you wanker. Last I checked, I can't die."

"Again, you overestimate yourself. You can die. The problem is that you don't stay dead. There is a difference."

John considered this revelation and how it might be used against him. He didn't like the implications.

"So what are you after, then?"

"Obviously, I have not come hunting after your soul. I have come merely to take care of matters that remain unresolved between us. You have become quite adept at remaining hidden from my sight in recent years, and I have been forced to contact you under these circumstances."

"Are you saying you killed Chas, then?"

"No, Constantine. Your friend died because he chose to live in a country where ten pounds of fried potatoes are cheaper than one cucumber. A massive coronary was inevitable. I am here because I had good reason to believe you would come out of hiding to be present at his wake out of some misguided sense of loyalty."

They both stood there silently, taking each other's measure. John Constantine was the most hated man in existence. He had made an enemy of both heaven and hell, and he made it his business to keep either side from winning their eternal war. The Devil, on the other hand, was the single being that everyone was supposed to hate. Perhaps it was fated that they spend all eternity at each other's throats.

"Constantine, I have spend several decades trying to collect your soul, to no avail. My failures having multiplied, our relationship has degenerated to little more than the antics of a cartoon cat and mouse. Terrible times are coming, Constantine, and I will soon have more pressing matters to attend to, and no more time to bother with the likes of you."

Hearing these words, John narrowed his eyes in suspicion and disbelief. An interesting twist of fate this was, but the Fates were never kind, especially not to the likes of him.

"So you're saying that you're not gonna be after my soul anymore? That I'm off the hook?"

"No, Constantine. I am saying that circumstances have forced me to settle for making your life a living hell."

And with that, the Devil disappeared from sight, leaving John to sputter and curse him in his wake.

"Bollocks. You smug bastard. You stupid, proud, conceited piece of shite. The king of all wankers, that one is."

"You got that right. Someone ought to give him what for."

John hadn't expected a response to his rant, let alone a voice that rose in accord with his sentiment. He was surprised, but not so much by the presence of the voice as by its familiarity and strangely hollow quality. He slowly turned to look behind him in the direction of the urn, and sure enough, a ghostly apparition was standing in front of it.

"Chas, is that you?"

"Sure it is, John. What's the matter? Aren't you glad to see your old mate?"

And so it was that John Constantine found himself haunted by the ghost of his dearly-departed friend.

"Bloody hell."

**NorAm: New York City, Police Station**

The police station was busy as hell when Charlie Monahan returned from an early morning of carousing with other officers getting off of night patrol. But that's the way the station had been all week, ever since the Statue of Liberty got blown up by those idiots from Patriot. The people were in a panic, and the department was paying the price. And it didn't help that some psychopath the news people were calling the LegendKiller was still running around free. Rumor at the station even had it that costumed vigilantes were crawling out of the woodwork trying to nail him.

It seemed pretty clear to Charlie that things weren't going to change any time soon. At least, not until the remains of the Statue of Liberty were completely sold off and the LegendKiller was caught. Speaking of which, there was the special crimes chief investigator now.

"Good morning, Detective. Any progress on the LegendKiller yet?"

Donvan Bradley looked up from reading his newspad to see Charlie Monahan standing over him, disturbing what he thought of as the only few minutes of quiet time his job afforded him. Irritated, he went back to reading the news before answering.

"If you say so. And no, nothing that would interest you or the press."

Donvan didn't like Monahan or others like him. Wannabe Justice Leaguers who didn't quite make the cut, they were just wasting valuable space in the ranks of New York's Finest as far as he was concerned. Most JL dropouts went into the military, and only the dregs ended up in the ranks of the police. Angry losers like that were just an accident waiting to happen, and one day, some innocent would pay the price. And it was no wonder to him why the LegendKiller was still on the loose.

It was the same story almost everywhere you went. Corruption in the police force was something that people took granted these days, and it was the same in New York as it was in Gotham and Metropolis. Donvan didn't approve, any more than his ancestor, Slam Bradley would have decades ago, but there was little that he could do about it.

"Aw, c'mon. You know selling information to the press is against the regs. I'd never do that."

Charlie wasn't very good at hiding his insincerity, and Donvan just closed his eyes, willing the slowly building ache between his temples to go away and Monahan to drop dead. He thanked the powers that be every day for not assigning Monahan to his unit.

"You know, I think there are some donuts left in the break room. If you hurry."

Without another word, Charlie was off and running. Donvan just sighed, exhaling slowly, and turned his attention to less unpleasant matters, like the tirade that the press was on about the Department's ineffectiveness.

"One of these days, his stupidity's going to catch up with him and get someone killed. Then there'll be hell to pay."

**NorAm: New York City, The Waldorf Astoria Hotel**

Barnabas was frightened awake by the sound of John screaming in horror. Before he knew what he was doing, Barnabas jumped off the bed and ducked under it in fear. Disgusted with himself for behaving like a newborn pup, he reminded himself that he was over a century old and quietly crawled back out. He jumped back onto the bed and nudged John awake, licking his face.

"Aagh! Stop that! Quit slobberin' on me!"

"I will if you promise to stop screaming and ruining my much needed beauty sleep."

"Hrrn? What?"

John looked all around him in something of a daze. It took him a minute or two to recognize the unfamiliar surroundings of his hotel room. It had been some time since he'd slept on anything softer than the city sidewalk, much less a real bed. Waking up in the plush surroundings of the Penthouse Suite of the Waldorf Astoria was a bit disconcerting, to say the least. But then he saw Barnabas, the talking dog that had befriended him the previous night, and it all came back to him.

"Oh, damn. Sorry about that, mate. These nightmares I have get pretty bad."

He grabbed his throbbing head and winced, groaning as the hangover hit him, washing away the adrenal surge prompted by the nightmare he'd been having, a nightmare that was not so much journey to realm of the Dream King as a deeply-buried memory that continued to haunt him.

"Do you have them often?"

"No. They mostly only hit me when I'm sober or livin' too easy."

"That explains a lot. I was wondering what purpose you had in drinking yourself to 'death' and sleeping in alleys."

Barnabas hesitated before continuing.

"It sounded pretty bad."

John steeled his gaze at a fixed point directly in front of him, not wanting to subject his new friend to the horror reflected in his eyes. He never stayed dead long enough to go to hell, but that didn't mean he couldn't visit it in his dreams.

"They usually are."

Barnabas could tell that John wasn't quite up to talking about it. He had decided to let it go when his nose brought a new item of interest to his attention.

Breakfast had been served.

He bounded off the bed and raced into the living room area where the hotel staff had laid out the morning meal. A trunk was also set by the door, a ragged-looking antique that Barnabas completely ignored. Using his jaw, he removed the cover from one of the entrees, allowing the smell of steak and eggs to make its way into the bedroom, so strong now that even John was able to figure out what had gotten Barnabas so excited. He quickly got up to join him.

"Aaah. Nothing like the smell of a good breakfast to shake away the cobwebs. Eh, Barn?"

**Western Eurasia: London, the Cambridge Club**

Lord Charles Patterson IV was sitting in his usual chair, relaxing by the fire after a long day at the U.N. Politics was a tricky business, even more so now than when the first Charles Patterson had made a name for himself in Parliament. After all, seizing power from his NorAm counterparts, even after their authority was diminished, was no simple matter. One had to be ready to strike as soon as those idiots from Patriot caused trouble. But Lord Patterson allowed these worries to dissolve away. He was safe within the confines of the Cambridge Club, an institution whose walls had reeked of power since its establishment in 1803. Here, he was above such petty concerns.

Originally founded as a social club for gentlemen who'd had the privilege of studying at Cambridge, the place had changed very little in the intervening centuries. Its membership was open only to those who were firmly established in the upper echelons of power. He nestled himself comfortably into the antique leather chair that was worth a small fortune and raised his feet onto the ottoman that was worth several more. Surrounded by priceless works of art and other rare furnishings, Lord Patterson felt quite at ease, and allowed himself to think back on better days.

His reverie was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. Sometimes, he wondered whether it wouldn't be worth it to replace the 18th-century Persian rugs with more modern and plush carpeting. He looked up to find one of the club's many servants standing over him, holding a silver tray. Resting on the tray was an antique cellular phone.

"Your pardon, Sir. I am sorry to disturb you, but you have a telephone call from you aide-de-camp in NorAm, calling from New York. He said that the matter was urgent."

Without another word, the servant stood by patiently for Lord Patterson to finish his call. All of the servants working in the Cambridge Club had inherited their positions and were both above reproach and beyond suspicion. Lord Patterson had no qualms about taking this call in the servant's presence.

"Yes, Patterson here."

His eyes widened as his aide relayed to him this important message. He even went so far as to gasp, something that did not happen often within the walls of the Cambridge Club, and unwittingly drew attention to himself. His surprise was that great and complete.

"Are you sure? Absolutely certain?"

He looked up and indicated for the servant to leave. The servant wondered what message could be of such import as to require this grave insult to his loyalty and professionalism but left without argument. He knew well the consequences for disobedience.

Lord Patterson continued in a harsh whisper.

"No! Do nothing!"

And then, he brought up a hand to cover his lips from view and continued even more quietly.

"The Waldorf Astoria, you say? Then keep an eye on him. Follow him or have him followed, but do nothing to arouse his suspicions. Continue to keep me informed. Patterson out."

Lord Patterson replaced the cellular onto the tray and leaned back in his leather chair. He tried to relax again but found that he could not. Suddenly, he felt himself being watched by eyes that he could not see. The shadows had mysteriously become oppressive, and the heat from the fire was no longer comfortable. He steepled his fingers before him and steeled his gaze at a fixed point ahead of him. There were other people to be informed, spies to be contacted, and much planning to be done.

And then a name passed his lips, a name that wasn't so much a soft whisper as a sharp hiss that escaped between his gritted teeth. "Constantine."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #2_ -


	3. Friends & Families

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #3**  
(Year One, Part Three)

_"Friends & Families"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Tommy Hancock

**NorAm: New York City, the Waldorf Astoria**

Breakfast was finished pleasantly enough. John and Barnabas both found the steak and eggs to their liking, and John passed the time by explaining his nightmare to Barnabas. Secrets were burdensome things, after all, and some secrets just weren't worth keeping from one's friends. Barnabas just ate and listened quietly until John was finished telling his story.

"Cripes. This tea is god-awful, mate."

Barnabas ignored the comment, too absorbed in the details of John's nightmare. What John seemed able to take in stride, Barnabas was unable to cope with.

"How can you just sit there complaining about your tea?"

"I'm British, Barn. It's what we do."

John cracked a smile as he added some milk and took another sip. He knew that Barnabas' sensibilities had been thoroughly offended, but he also knew he was going to have to adjust to this kind of thing if they were going to continue to travel together. And Barnabas was going to have to adjust quickly.

"But to have faced the devil himself, to know that your friend's spirit was forced to haunt the world eternally because of you."

Barnabas paused to slowly pass his gaze from left to right, not moving his head an inch, before continuing more quietly.

"Is he here?"

John just smirked.

"No, Chas ain't here. If he was, you'd know it. Trust me. Besides which, I sussed out a long time ago that I can't take responsibility for all the shite that me enemies throw against me mates. A hard lesson, but one that needed learning."

John pulled out a cigarette and lit up. He took a long drag to help himself relax. Barnabas just continued to regard John with a dumbfounded expression.

"But to have your friend haunting you? Didn't that upset you?"

John locked eyes with Barnabas and leveled him a steely gaze.

"You absobloodylutely have no fucking idea. Don't get me wrong, Chas was a mate, and there were times when I was glad he was still around, but Adam and Eve it when I say that Chas was the last person I wanted haunting me."

John took another long puff before continuing.

"You have to understand the kind of life I lead, er, was leading back then. I was living life on the edge, you know? Walking a line. Chas pushed me over that line more times than he could count, not that it was his fault. Chas was just being Chas. But that King of all Wankers, the Devil, he knew exactly what he was doing. Sticking me with Chas was like sticking James Bond with Gilligan."

Was there an edge of admiration in John's voice? Barnabas wasn't quite sure. He surmised that this was John's way of letting him know that he was a cold son of a bitch, but Barnabas couldn't quite tell how much was genuine and how much was merely a facade.

"So where is your friend now?"

"Chas? I'm not sure, really. A few decades ago, I pissed Chas off one too many times, and he just up and left. I found out later that heaven and hell had been emptied for some reason. Everything had been set free. I figure whatever caused it must have freed Chas too."

John put out his cigarette and headed for the bathroom. Soon the sound of running water could be heard, mingled with the sound of John singing.

"..._adventure, death, and glory, the short goodbye, the whispered story_..."

Barnabas ignored the cacophony and headed for the hot tub to take care of his own business. He tried to decide whether continuing to travel with John was a good idea, all things considered.

An hour later, John returned and opened the strange trunk that was lying on the living room floor. Inside, Barnabas could see clothing, typical of expensive apparel from the late twentieth century along with other sundries, easily worth a small fortune to a collector.

"I was wondering what that trunk was doing there. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?"

"I called a mate last night and asked him to send it over. I'm going to meet him at the pub later, and I was hoping you'd come along."

Barnabas thought about it, and after some consideration, he decided to accompany him. Ultimately he was very curious as to what this friend of John Constantine was like.

"Of course I will. Where else would I go? We're friends aren't we?"

**NorAm: New York City, Downtown**

John looked oddly out of place on the streets of New York City wearing clothing that had ostensibly gone out of fashion about a century earlier. Resplendent in his Armani suit, Italian loafers, and trademark trenchcoat, he was walking with a strut that reminded Barnabas of a character in a movie that had once made disco famous. Indeed, no one who saw John today would recognize him as the same man who had been ignominiously clubbed to death the previous day.

They had spent the better part of the afternoon walking around Central Park, enjoying what passed for a clear winter's day in the city in 2112. The sun was only just starting to set, and John and Barnabas were finally on their way to his scheduled appointment with his friend. Barnabas noticed that they studiously avoided NorAm Plaza along the way.

"Where are we going again?"

John grimaced distastefully.

"Some place called 'Warriors,' a high-tech superhero disco. I have no idea what might be goin' through Hob's noggin. I always thought he had better taste."

Barnabas suddenly stopped walking and sat on the sidewalk, forcing John to stop as well and turn around to face him."

"Did you say Hob? As in Hob Gadling? Robert Gadling?"

"Heard of him, have you? Not surprised. He's one of the richest men in the world."

Barnabas harrumphed.

"No, actually I know him. Well, we met once. At a wake. A very long time ago, I might add. I was fairly certain that he'd be dead by now."

Shaking his head, Barnabas continued.

"I'm rather glad I'll be seeing him again. I only wish I could talk to him."

"Why wouldn't you?"

Barnabas leveled an amused stare at John before continuing.

"Because that's one of the first rules that talking dogs learn. It's a bad idea to talk in public places. People tend to stare."

John smirked and awarded Barnabas with a soft chuckle.

"You don't have to worry about that, Barn. Hangin' out with Delirium has left its mark. People will ignore bizarre stuff that happens around ya, and I'm pretty sure that talking dogs qualify."

Barnabas smiled back, reminding John of Tony Blair, the PM who smiled too much to be trusted completely. "Are you sure about this?"

"Taking coals to Newcastle, aren't we? You have me word, Barn. Stuff like this I know about. Cheer up. Believe me, our biggest problem will be getting you in the damned place."

**NorAm: New York City, NorAm Plaza**

Charlie Monahan was sitting in his patrol vehicle at NorAm Plaza, nervous, tired, and frightened as hell. He'd checked the day reports to find that there was no mention of a dead body being recovered. At first, he'd just been irritated, thinking that he was stuck with the cleanup work himself. Unfortunately, he returned to his beat to find the body missing without a trace.

If nothing else, Charlie knew how to cover his own ass, and he knew that this wasn't good. He was wondering how this might come back to haunt him in the future when a light tapping at the window of his vehicle disturbed his reverie. Putting a hand on his weapon, Charlie looked up to find a man wearing the uniform of a United Nations aide.

Frightened nearly to the point of losing control of his bodily functions, Charlie quickly regained his composure, not wanting to give himself away any more than he already had.

"Officer Monahan, I presume? My name is Simon Endicott, and I am here to offer you a transfer to UN security on behalf of my employer. Considering your current situation, I recommend that you accept. My employer does not take kindly to refusals or ingratitude."

**NorAm: New York City, Warriors**

Expecting much worse, John and Barnabas were both pleasantly surprised upon their arrival at 'Warriors.' Completely refurbished, all of the holographic eyesores gone, the place had a twentieth century feel to it that inspired both of them to reminisce on better times. An old-fashioned banner read 'Opening Night,' and a long line was formed outside the bar awaiting entry. Bypassing the line, John just walked up to the door, Barnabas at his heels.

"I'm sorry, but dogs are not allowed."

The two bouncers were quite sizable, and Barnabas thought it unlikely that John would be successful in budging them, magic or no. But then again, that's the way all bouncers look.

"My name's John and this is my friend, Barn. We're guests of Mr. Gadling."

"Robert Gadling?"

The two bouncers started whispering to each other, and then one of them headed into the bar. He soon returned with another man in tow. John took a good look at the sport jacket, 'Warriors' t-shirt, and jeans and wondered whether this could be the owner, not believing that the proprietor of such a trendy establishment would dress in a manner that was considered unfashionable over a century ago.

"Friends of Mr. Gadling, are ya? I'm Guy Gardner, the owner. He told me he was expecting guests, but he didn't say anything to me about any dog. Is he housebroken?"

Offended, Barnabas harrumphed.

"I thought they stopped making Americans like this decades ago."

Barnabas was pleased to find that his comment was completely ignored by everyone present except John, who couldn't help snickering a bit.

"You don't have to worry on that score, mate. Barn here, he's quite bright, even for a dog his age."

Guy bent down to make a closer examination and made note of the look of intelligence in Barnabas' eyes. That look reminded him of a dog that he'd once had. Guy straightened back up before replying.

"Well, normally I wouldn't do this, but I think I'll make an exception in this case, seeing as how you're friends with Bob Gadling and all. Welcome to 'Warriors.'"

With that, the bouncers made way, and Guy pointed them in the direction of the booth they were looking for. Barnabas drew more than a few curious stares as they entered, but they soon spotted Hob sitting in a booth in the far corner.

"What are they looking at me for? Don't they see that man in the black and red plaid suit?"

"Come on, Barn. Be nice."

Hob looked up and smiled as they approached. On the table in front of him was a wooden box and a tall glass filled with a dark liquid.

"John, you old devil, is that you? I hardly recognize you."

"What do ya mean, Hob? You old pirate. All I did was shave and chop me barnet."

"My arse you did, John. You look downright respectable. And who's this with you? I'd never have guessed you'd take to animals, John."

Hob looked at Barnabas and wondered why he seemed so familiar to him. He stopped wondering when Barnabas spoke.

"I'm not surprised you don't recognize me, Hob. It has been a long time and men forget upon waking as they say."

"Barnabas?"

"Yes, Hob, of course it's Barnabas. How many talking dogs have you known in your more than considerable lifetime?"

Hob Gadling chuckled, instantly recognizing the irascible tone.

"Quite a few in my sleep, actually. But I never thought I'd see you again."

"Anything can happen if you live long enough."

A waitress walked up to the table and smiled.

"Can I get anything for you gentlemen?"

Hob and John both ignored the way that Barnabas started looking around to see who she might be referring to.

"Allow me, John. Jean, lass, would you be a darling and bring us a few pints of Guinness along with some fish and chips and some ribs? And keep it coming, will you? There's a good lass."

"Of course, Mr. Gadling."

Jean smiled and left to retrieve their order.

"Did I hear you right, Hob? Guinness? I thought they stopped making good stout ages ago."

"They did. Fortunately, I had a lot of it in stock when it happened. A few months ago, I noticed that my supply was starting to run out. Paid out a small fortune to research the stuff and start up a new brewery with the same name. The owner here shares our taste for the stuff, and I've obliged him by providing a steady supply."

Obviously pleased with himself, Hob's smile widened when Jean returned with their drinks and a bowl of water for Barnabas. Taking up their pints, John and Hob both stood as they clinked their glasses together for a toast in unison. Even Barnabas raised his head and sat a little taller.

"To making life worth the living."

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

The gates of Parliament had been closed for nearly half a century. Once the center of British politics, the antiquated structure had long since been converted into another museum of antiquities. But unlike the other one, this museum was filled with artifacts that originated in the British Isles, rather than those stolen from Egypt, Rome, and other lands where the former British Empire had once cast its long shadow.

It was the last place that Lord Charles Patterson IV wanted to be and the one place to which he was obligated to go. Even worse, he was obliged to bring his son, Charles Patterson V, with him. Holding a seat on the United Nations had its privileges, and one of them was being beholden to no one. But there were responsibilities that even he could not ignore, responsibilities to one's ancestors, to one's compatriots, and to one's benefactors.

And it was all because the infamous John Constantine, for some inexplicable reason, had decided to rear his ugly head like the specter of death.

"Father, what are we doing here at this time of night? You've been very mysterious all evening. You telephone me, insist that I meet you here at this ungodly hour, and don't tell me a bloody thing. You promised me an explanation when I got here, now let's have it!"

Lord Patterson just closed his eyes and exhaled slowly before raising his hand to slap his son in the face. A large, strapping young man, Charles was not so much harmed as stunned. He reached up to rub his hand against the injury, wondering what could possibly have his father so agitated. It had been years since his father had found the need to inflict corporal punishment on him.

"Soon, you will have all the answers you seek. You are here because you are my son and because you are a Patterson. Remember who you are."

With that, Lord Patterson removed an identicard from his topcoat and used it to enter the museum. The lights turned on automatically as he entered, and he walked in slowly, following a well-remembered path across several winding halls and down several flights of stairs. He walked up to a section of bas-relief imagery depicting Henry VIII and his court. Depressing the eyes of the king, a small keyhole was revealed, designed for an old-fashioned mechanical key.

Charles watched with interest as his father reached inside his shirt to remove a small, velvet bag that was hanging from a silver chain around his neck. Lord Patterson opened it and removed an iron key in an almost reverent fashion. He placed the key in the keyhole and turned it until a clicking sound was clearly audible. What must have been a trick of the light reflecting off of the metal caused the key to glow momentarily.

Following that, the entire section of bas-relief imagery sunk into the wall behind it, revealing a man-sized opening as stale air rushed out at them. The passage that it led into was both dark and ominous.

"Father, don't you think we should have brought some bodyguards in with us? You are an UN representative, after all."

His father just grimaced in distaste.

"Do not sully this moment with your petty concerns for safety. I am about to introduce you to the secret of the success of the Patterson family since the time of my grandfather, your great-grandfather. Do you know what that secret is?"

Charles repeated the answer that had been ingrained into his memory as a small boy. With a mild combination of boredom, shame, and distaste, he answered.

"Ruthlessness."

"Yes, my son, ruthlessness. Absolute ruthlessness. The kind that is born only of the greatest hatred. The kind that requires extraordinary power and influence to execute."

Lord Patterson locked eyes with his son for several moments before turning away to enter the passageway, his son following closely behind. They passed through several twisting corridors as Lord Patterson continued.

"That is the same answer that I was forced to memorize as a child, but you do not yet truly understand its meaning, just as I did not until my father brought me here, just as his father brought him before me, just as I have now brought you. Do you remember who the most hated man is?"

Charles groaned inwardly. Was he to be plagued by this nonsensical fairy tale even in adulthood? The very concept offended him now that he was grown as much as the story frightened him as a child. Had his father gone completely daft? Hidden passageways? The family secret? Just what was his father up to?

"Not that business about John Constantine again? The man is long dead by now if he ever lived at all! The very idea that magic is real, that demons and angels exist, and that this John Constantine could beat the Devil himself at his own game! It's absolutely preposterous!"

Lord Patterson just smiled, remembering that he had uttered very similar words to his own father some thirty odd years ago.

"I was skeptical as well until the day that I was presented with absolute proof that it was all true. John Constantine does still live, and we Pattersons are obligated to hunt him down and see to his destruction by a pact made long ago in exchange for temporal power. None of us has as yet succeeded, but my father was fortunate enough to stumble onto the means to his possible destruction."

Charles could only think that it was time for the loony bin for sure and that the scandal would ruin the family name for several generations. In desperation, he covered his ears with his hands, hoping that the gesture would somehow force his father to end this madness, but his father just ignored him and continued.

"Yes, ruthlessness has been the key to your family's success, and yet also the reason why Constantine still lives. For as ruthless as we are, a Constantine is more ruthless by far."

The corridors finally led them to a room, and Lord Patterson slowly approached a sealed casket lying in its center. A funeral casket, it was oddly constructed of solid metal and marked 'Archaeology: Ireland, Drogheda.' A mad grin flashed across Lord Patterson's face as he grabbed the edge of the casket and stood poised to open the lid.

"I assume you are familiar with the history of the Drogheda massacre, which transpired in Ireland under Cromwell? Well, that slaughter was led by this man who was cursed with immortality by the Ribbon Queen!"

Saying these words, Lord Patterson forced open the lid of the casket, revealing a badly decayed corpse wearing the tatters of medieval-looking attire. The stench was almost unbearable, and Charles gagged as he became convinced that his father was insane. But that conviction died as soon as the corpse sat up, hacking and coughing, forcing Charles to question his own sanity.

"Who dares disturb the rest of Harry Constantine?"

Charles felt his knees buckle, and he collapsed onto the hard floor, scampering away in horror as quickly as he could. His father just smiled a smile that stretched almost from ear to ear, knowing that his son would no longer have any doubts.

"You see, my son, the only way to destroy a Constantine is with another Constantine."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #3_ -


	4. Tragedies Great and Small

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #4**  
(Year One, Part Four)

_"Tragedies Great and Small"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Tommy Hancock

**NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"**

Barnabas sat quietly, watching the foam in John's most recent pint of Guinness settle thickly. The sight was quite beautiful and calming, almost hypnotic in a way, and a pleasant distraction from Monkees hits playing in the background and the current topic of conversation. As often occurs when men drink together, idle banter had soon given way to political discussion.

"So tell me, John, now that you've rejoined what passes for society, what do you think of the 22nd century?"

"Not much different from the old days, really. A little more technology and a little less magic, but hey, that's the way of things. The people who have are still screwing about with the people who don't and politicians are still power-hungry shite bastards."

Barnabas listened quietly, never letting his gaze leave the pint sitting on the table that had become the main focus of his attention. Even so, the opinions of men like John and Hob were not ones to be dismissed or discounted.

"Speaking as one of the haves, I suppose I'm not in much of a position to disagree with you. Still, I wish things were different."

"What? The life of a mega millionaire doesn't suit you?"

John smirked as he considered Hob's various holdings, which amounted to several lifetimes' worth of fortunes. In addition to his publishing business, Hob owned stock in everything from LexCorp to Drake Industries, in addition to a private collection of antiquities that did shame to several museums put together.

"Business is good, John, and it has been for some time. I've lived much longer than any man has a right to, and like most men, I've made my share of mistakes. But I've learned from them, I have, and I can tell you that the current state of affairs is just a powder keg waiting to blow. Terrible times are coming, John. I've seen it happen before, and I've seen it happen over much less."

John furrowed his brow with concern, Hob's opinion being one he had come to value. Sure, he was rich, and he wasn't mortal, but deep down, he was still a peasant, working class. He didn't muck about with magic if he could avoid it, and he did what he could to keep good things like Guinness from fading away. And eternal life without Guinness would truly be hell.

"If you ask me, the problems started with Harras. Seems to me, he did everything in his power to flush the world down the toilet. He completely sold out to big business and took votes away from anyone who couldn't afford it. Nothing's quite made sense since. A shite bastard politician if ever there was one."

"You'll get no argument from me. It wasn't till Robert Harras assumed UN Presidency that it all got turned upside down. Nothing has quite made sense ever since. The Presidents that followed only perpetuated the problems that he started. It's no wonder to me that this Patriot business continues to escalate."

Neither was it a surprise to John.

"So what do you think of this Patriot business? I'm still not sure what to make of them. Depending on who you ask, they're terrorists or freedom fighters and definitely troublemakers. What would you call them?"

Hob stared at his Guinness in a contemplative fashion before answering as he reflected on the history that he'd lived.

"Revolutionaries. Another case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Hob smiled.

"Don't you remember your history lessons, John? Or didn't you bother with proper schooling? I'm talking about the American Revolution, of course, back when King George lost the colonies."

John chuckled.

"You'll forgive me if my knowledge of that's a bit sparse. Didn't have the luxury of living through it like you did, mate."

Hob smiled weakly in return, remembering the disreputable trade that had been his business at the time.

"Land and Indians, John, land and Indians. All that taxation without representation guff was just nonsense, really. Old King George raised the taxes because it was costing too much to fight the Indians while the colonists were expanding west. Old George ordered a stop to the westward expansion, but you know how Americans are. They fought their way west like it was a noble cause. The Indians fought back, and the Crown was forced to levy new taxes to defend the fool idiots. Of course, the people in Boston and Philadelphia had no idea what was going on in the west so they screamed bloody murder about the taxes every time it happened."

Hob took a long, slow sip of his Guinness, allowing time for his words to sink in.

"An interesting way of looking at things, but how is this Patriot business the same thing?" asked John.

"Mark my words, John. Before the year is out, taxes will be hiked and personal freedoms curtailed even more than they are now. And as long as Patriot is pulling this terrorist crap, they'll be getting the blame, not the Justice League, and certainly not the UN.

John took a moment stare at his own drink before responding. "That is pretty stupid. You're right, Hob. I guess Patriot's sailing four sheets to the wind with their tactics."

As yet another early hit by the Monkees hit the sound system, John checked the time and took the opportunity to excuse himself. "Be right back, lads. Gonna step outside and have me a smoke. Try not to talk about me too much behind my back while I'm gone," he said with a smirk.

**NorAm: New York City, NorAm Plaza**

Charlie Monahan could hardly believe his own ears. A job in UN Security! People waited all their lives to get that kind of gig. He'd been waiting all his life for an opportunity like this, and here it was, offered up to him on a silver platter right out of the blue.

"Naturally, there exists a precondition to this arrangement."

A catch. There was always a catch. Nothing ever worked out for Charlie Monahan. For every goal he'd ever set for himself as a child, there was always some test he couldn't pass or some standard he couldn't meet. Afraid to ask, Charlie asked anyway.

"What is it that I have to do?"

The man smiled. "The previous evening, you were seen pummeling a man to death in this very alley. After you killed him, you were seen dragging his body behind the dumpster in this same alley. Not a very thorough means of disposing of a corpse, but that matter is hardly relevant as several moments later, that same corpse recovered and soon walked away. For reasons that my employer chooses not to explain, my employer wishes this man eliminated, and that is the task that is required of you. Do you understand, Mr. Monahan?"

Stunned, Charlie just sat there with his mouth open, considering what he'd been told. They wanted him to kill somebody? They wanted him to kill the guy he thought he'd killed last night? Officer Monahan wasn't quite sure what to make of that. For a moment, he wondered what the true nature of this offer of employment would be and what the consequences of accepting or declining would amount to, but he quickly dismissed these niggling doubts.

"Is that all?" he asked. After all, if that bum was still alive, then Charlie would have to get rid of him anyway.

"Yes, Mr. Monahan, that is all. Currently, the gentleman in question can be found at an establishment called 'Warriors.' I am told that he is there still. Go there, wait for him to exit the establishment, and eliminate him. Succeed and the position I've offered is yours. Do you accept the terms of this arrangement, Mr. Monahan?"

Charlie smiled. For the first time in his life, it looked like he was going to get a break. After all, he'd already gotten the upper hand on the guy once. How hard could it be to do it again? "I do."

And the man smiled back, pleased that matters had been resolved so quickly. This man was indeed a fool, readily expendable, and the perfect stooge for this test of Constantine's abilities.

"Excellent. I suggest that you make haste to that establishment forthwith. I shall monitor your progress with great anticipation."

**NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"**

Just after John stepped out, an argument developed between the owner of Warriors and a gatecrasher. They both stepped outside to resolve their difficulties and Barnabas was glad to see them go.

"Wouldn't you know it? Just when I'm starting to get comfortable with this place, a scuffle breaks out."

Hob leaned back and smiled.

"Well, it is opening night. These things happen. Besides, the distraction is a useful one. With the crowd intent on the fight, they won't pay any attention to a talking dog, what with John not being here. Even so, we should probably keep our voices low."

Widening his eyes, Barnabas let out a low whistle.

"That's right. John's enchantment only works when he's with me. By the by, how is it that you could understand me?"

"Weird is a relative thing, is all. What's passing strange to someone else seems commonplace to a man who's been around for more than seven centuries. Even so, I'm surprised to find you hanging about with the likes of John."

Barnabas cocked his head to one side in a curious fashion.

"And why's that? Actually, we only met last night, but I already feel something of a kinship with him. Probably because he reminds me so much of both of my former masters."

Not surprised, Hob emptied his pint down his throat before responding.

"He's a Constantine, Barnabas, a true Constantine. They live terrible lives and die terrible deaths, and their time on this earth is by nature chaotic, destructive, and self-destructive. I've known a few Constantines in my lifetime, but mark my words, John's the best and the worst of the lot."

Barnabas noted the grave expression on Hob's face, taking some time to ponder his words before continuing.

"How did you and John become friends?"

Smiling, Hob responded.

"That's a long story. Suffice to say that we met a long time ago and that we caught up with each other again a short while back. He's a good friend, and he tries to be a good man, but I could never walk his road with him. And that's why I'm surprised to find you in his company. What's your next move going to be?"

Barnabas had to think about that one.

"I'm not sure. I guess I'll stick with John until I find reason to leave."

"Then watch your back and his. John collects enemies like dogs collect bones. Now that he's come out of hiding, his enemies are bound to catch up with him eventually if they haven't already. And then, it'll be open season. It's going to be a bloody foxhunt out there and John's the bloody fox."

"Bones and foxhunts, indeed." Barnabas harrumphed. It sounded like the fight was outside had reached some kind of resolution so his next words were particularly low.

Trying to distract himself from such thoughts, Barnabas let his gaze wander to the wooden box on the table.

"Just out of curiosity, what's in that box you brought with you?"

"This? Just a little protection, something to help John get through the rough times that most definitely lie ahead. He left it in my keeping when he decided that discretion was the better part of valor."

Hob opened the box to reveal an ancient revolver, an old-style six-shooter straight out of the American west.

"You call that protection? In case you hadn't noticed, most people use lasers and such nowadays. I doubt that a revolver will do John much good."

Hob smiled. "This one's special, though. It used to be one of a pair that belonged to someone that John called the Saint of Killers. The story John told me says that God himself forged them out of a flaming sword that belonged to His angel of death. Don't worry, this thing packs more punch than you might think. I only wish I knew what happened to the other half of the pair."

"How did John get his hands on it?" asked Barnabas, eying the old antique with more respect.

Hob's brow wrinkled as he tried to jog his memory. "Don't entirely remember. John told me some story about having retrieved it in heaven. Then he went into some philosophical rigamarole about there being an infinite number of dimensions but only one heaven and hell that leads to all of them. Didn't really understand it."

Hearing that, Barnabas gave out a low whistle. Maybe traveling with John Constantine wouldn't be as dangerous as he thought. Maybe it would be much worse.

**NorAm: New York City, Alley**

No sooner had John lit up than a huge biker fought his way past the bouncers and started causing trouble. He used the distraction to step into a side alley, knowing that his midnight appointment would want some privacy.

Leaning his back against a wall of the alley, John let the shadows wrap themselves around him. And just as he did so, another figure separated itself from the shadows in front of him.

"This was almost too easy."

Pleased by the distraction of the noise from the brawl taking place on the street, Charlie Monahan stared hard at his prey, a smile on his face and a police baton in his hand, the same one he'd used to beat John the previous night. Of course, John looked very different today, well-groomed and well-dressed, but not even Charlie Monahan could forget the face of a man that he'd killed.

John, of course, recognized the face of the man that had killed him, despite the fact that he'd been very drunk when it happened. He listened as the police baton began to hum, ready to release a blast of lethal energy at him at point blank range. Hardly fazed, John just looked at his watch as the seconds counted down to midnight.

"But not quite that simple, you stupid, fat bastard. Up yours."

An expression of rage was quickly replaced by one of confusion and disbelief. As Charlie Monahan dropped his baton, some blood trickled down out of the corner of his mouth and a gurgling sound emanated from his throat. His body collapsed to the ground as the life force drained away from his body, revealing the form of a beautiful and innocent-looking girl standing behind him. Her beauty and innocence were belied only by the look of pleasure on her face and the dagger dripping with blood that she slowly withdrew from Charlie Monahan's anal cavity.

"Hello, Ellie. Been a long time."

John stared long and hard at the demoness standing before him, a former lover and a former friend who suffered him to live only because her own survival depended on it. The succubus Chantinelle was the only succubus ever to succeed at the seduction of angels, and she had succeeded more than once. John had to continually remind himself of what she truly was whenever the situation warranted that they meet in person.

"Yes, John, it has been a long time. But not nearly long enough. Why have you summoned me here?"

Chantinelle's thoughts went to the masking sigils that John had inscribed upon her body more than a century earlier. They were all that stood in the way of her destruction, punishment for having dared to produce a child with an angel. Indeed, there were those above and below who still sought her destruction. The masking sigils hid her from their notice, and the sigils were dependent on John's continued existence. But naturally, they couldn't hide her from the notice of the man who'd inscribed them.

"Don't worry, Ellie, I'll make this quick. I just have a question that needs answering is all."

_John's mind wandered back about fifty years to the day that Chas had left him._

_"What do you mean you're leaving? You can't leave! You're a ghost! And I'm the sorry bastard you're cursed to haunt."_

_"Screw you, John! I always knew you were an arsehole, but I didn't know you were a complete and total piece of shite till now. I've half a mind to stay just to piss about with you like you always did with me."_

_"Half a mind is right, you berk! Go then. Get lost! Maybe I'll finally have me some peace."_

_"Not bloody likely, you wanker!"_

_And with that, Chas faded from view, never to be seen again, or so John had hoped at the time._

"Gods, but I miss Chas sometimes." His thoughts finally wandering back to the situation at hand, John continued with his question.

"About fifty years ago, God took an extended vacation. Heaven and Hell were emptied, and all the dead were set free. Last night, after this fat bastard killed me, I met up with Occult who told me about a war being waged over heaven and Hell by armies of the dead. Before he could tell me more, I came back. I need to know. Is such a war being waged between Heaven and Hell?"

Chantinelle smiled knowingly. "Why do you ask, John? Are you worried? Or are you just tired of skulking about in the gutter?"

Returning her cold gaze, John took a drag on his cigarette, releasing a steady stream of smoke from his lips as he responded. "Survival's a rough game. And we all do what we have to do to survive."

John reflected on the vast number of enemies he'd buried over the years. He sometimes wondered how he'd managed to survive them all, but the answer was pretty simple, really. He was still alive because they were dead and couldn't really bother him anymore. When that changed, he'd had no choice but to go into hiding. His enemies had been formidable enough when they were alive and would be almost impossible to deal with now that they were dead. The Spook Group had taught him as much way back when.

"It surprises me that you didn't seek confirmation before crawling out of your hole. You're taking quite a risk."

"There's risk in everything, Ell, but terrible times are coming. I can tell. I need to come out of hiding, but I also need to know."

Ellie listened on, obviously with some amusement. "Is that concern I hear in your voice? Do you actually care about what happens to this world? I'd have thought your thinking would have gone the way of the existentialists long since."

John chuckled. Not even he was that arrogant. Indeed, John knew well that not everything was glorious, and it went beyond conceit to think that a future that wasn't glorious was no future at all. And it was supreme arrogance to think that if France couldn't have a glorious future, then no one else possibly could.

"The rantings of pompous French bastards? I think not."

Knowing that John's fragile conscience would surely get him into more trouble than she could ever set against him, Chantinelle smiled inhumanly from ear to ear, reminding John of the manner of creature that she truly was.

"Then let's get this over with, John. What you have heard is true. A war is about to rage in the Afterlife, and most of your old enemies will be too concerned with these other matters to bother with you. Most, but not all. Your dead ancestors have already chosen sides, but the nastier bits of yourself that you left in Hell remain unaccounted for. Does that allay your concerns?"

"No, but it answers my question, don't it? Thanks, Ellie. I'll be seeing you."

Dismissed, Chantinelle stepped forward to give John a parting kiss, one that would make him long for her in the centuries to come. John had the sensation that Chantinelle's tongue was leaping down his throat, rubbing against the walls of his heart, and sucking the lifeblood from it. Using her cheek, she pressed the tip of John's cigarette against his face as well, inflicting pain as well as pleasure upon him. Finally, she stepped away and was gone as silently as she came.

"Farewell, John Constantine."

John was somewhat sorry to see her go. After dragging the corpse to the darkest corner of the alley, John stepped back inside to rejoin Barnabas and Hob, just as the brawl in the street came to an end. Looking back at the shadows, John whispered an unnecessary farewell.

"Goodbye, Ellie."

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

His antique cellular pressed to his ear, Lord Patterson listened with an expression between pleasure and disappointment plastered to his features.

"Very well. Dispose of the body as I instructed and maintain your vigilance. Inform me immediately of any further developments."

"There is news?"

Harry Constantine's voice was hoarse and gravelly, perhaps from disuse, perhaps because of his undead state.

"Yes. Constantine dispatched the constable with the aid of some woman. The reports say that she appeared and disappeared through shadows. It sounds as if Constantine may be in league with the metahumans."

Dry laughter erupted from Harry's throat.

"Hah ha hah! A demoness more likely, and a powerful ally she would be. You must move more carefully, now that he is aware of you."

Lord Patterson crossed his eyes, not pleased with Harry's tone.

"Do not concern yourself. He will not suspect my involvement. The constable was chosen for this initial contact because Constantine would assume he was merely covering his own tracks. Indeed, he will suspect nothing."

Harry sneered as well as he could manage without lips, thinking Patterson an overconfident fool that would soon end up dead.

"Do not underestimate him. I have met this one before, and he is not to be trifled with."

Stunned, Lord Patterson reacted vehemently.

"How is that possible? You've been interred in the earth for centuries!"

Anger evident in his eyes, Harry responded with even greater vehemence, without even raising his voice.

"The answer is simple. He found me and dug me up. He said he'd researched his family and found out about the curse that was laid upon me. He said that he wanted to know where he came from. I remember well the look of arrogance on his face. And I could see in his eyes that he thought me worthy only of his hate and disdain. As casually as you please, he kicked me back into my grave and piled the dirt back on top of me, leaving me to suffer with my curse."

Patterson found it difficult to accept that even Constantine could have such disrespect for his blood, his lineage. Noting his stunned reaction, Harry decided to reassure the new-found ally foolish enough to think himself his master.

"Do not concern yourself, for my vengeance shall be sweet. There is hatred between us, debts unpaid, and a reckoning still to be had. I shall repay him for the harm he did and the disrespect he showed me a thousandfold. Blood is thick, but sometimes hatred is thicker."

And despite his own hatred, Lord Patterson in that moment pitied his enemy.

**NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"**

John returned to find Barnabas resting his eyes and Hob in the middle of a book written by Darian Order.

"The Nouveaux Romantic Movement? Damn it, Hob, I thought you had better taste."

Chuckling, John sat back down, and Barnabas opened his eyes.

"I do. I just think it's interesting how much people can get wrong when romanticizing the past. They almost completely ignore all the bad stuff and never get the good stuff exactly right. It reminds me of the medieval renaissance fairs that were popular back in your day."

"Then why'd you spend credits on it?"

Hob smiled.

"I didn't. One of my companies publishes it. I'm just looking for a clue as to why superheroes in tight costumes are suddenly popping back up all over the place, crawling out of the woodwork. To my way of thinking, battles like the one that just took place outside are going to become commonplace. Do you have any ideas?"

"I haven't the foggiest. A crazy American thing, I always thought. You'd never catch a Brit in that kind of getup. Sure, there was that Mirror Master guy, but he was a Scot, and a criminal to boot, so he doesn't really count."

Smiling again, Hob chuckled.

"Actually, I wonder why that is? Why shouldn't Brits go running around in tight costumes? The Yanks get away with it."

Barnabas harrumphed, having decided to show them the real reason why cynic means dog-faced.

"No mystery there. Speaking as one who saw the 'Full Monty,' I'd say the answer is obvious."

In unison, both John and Hob awarded Barnabas with insulted glares before bursting into laughter. As the evening was drawing to a close, Hob offered up a toast. As he raised his Guinness, John raised his as well, and even Barnabas stood up, poised over the pint that had been his entertainment for the evening.

"To devils, rogues, and misfits in the cosmic scheme of things. May all be given their due. And to John, welcome back."

In unison, all three of them drank in honor of the odd toast.

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #4_ -


	5. The Jesus Christ Killer

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #5**

_"The Jesus Christ Killer"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Tommy Hancock

"IN LATE FEBRUARY OF THE YEAR 2112, A MAN WAS FOUND MURDERED ON THE STEPS OF THE FORMER CHURCH OF THE SERVANTS TO THE KING IN NEW YORK CITY. WHETHER THIS MAN WAS ACTUALLY MURDERED THERE OR PLACED THERE AFTER HIS MURDER REMAINS A POINT OF CONJECTURE AND DEBATE IN THESE DIFFICULT TIMES. SUCH AN OCCURRENCE WOULD BE CONSIDERED UNREMARKABLE IF NOT FOR THE IDENTITY OF THE VICTIM AND THE MANNER OF HIS EXECUTION. CHARLES MONAHAN WAS A NEW YORK POLICE OFFICER AND A KNOWN DEVOTEE OF THE REVEREND HORATIO ROBERTS. HE WAS FOUND NAKED ON THE STEPS OF THE CHURCH, AND THE CAUSE OF DEATH WAS VIOLENT ANAL INTRUSION. THE LETTERS J AND C WERE FOUND CARVED INTO HIS BUTTOCKS, AND THE PRESENCE OF THESE INITIALS HAS SPARKED MUCH CONTROVERSY IN THE THEOLOGICAL COMMUNITY THROUGHOUT THE WORLD. AND ALTHOUGH I DID NOT KNOW THE MAN PERSONALLY, EITHER IN THAT VEIN OR IN THAT CAPACITY, I FEEL COMPELLED TO TELL HIS STORY. MY NAME IS GERALDO CHUNG."

_I decided to begin my investigation with the family of the deceased. Considerably surprised to find that Monahan had no family to speak of other than his mother, I was even more surprised to find that he had still been living with his mother upto the time of his death at the age of 38. Mrs. Monahan lives in a small apartment in what used to be called the Bronx. A graying woman in her sixties, she was quite amenable to my request for an interview, perhaps a bit too amenable in retrospect._

**Interview with Mrs. Mathilda Monahan**

"Good evening, Mrs. Monahan. My condolences on the tragic loss of your son." I do my best to look distressed as I offer my sympathies but find it extremely difficult to maintain my composure when she displays antipathy.

"Don't make no never mind to me. My boy Charlie was a bad seed from day one. Damned doctors had to rip open my stomach on account o' he was already so damned fat. Almost 11 pounds he was when they finally cut him out." She scowls vehemently at the unpleasant memory, and I chuckle weakly, not wanting to offend.

"Am I to understand that you are not upset by your son's... untimely demise?" I try not to look abashed at her utter lack of sentiment, but I am not a trained actor, and my efforts were not entirely successful.

"Untimely? Hah! It was bound to happen sooner or later. Always picking fights with the wrong people, getting into trouble. If he wasn't so damned big, he'd have bit the bullet a long time ago. Mind you, I never expected it to happen the way it did, but I wasn't surprised. Upset? I'm collecting his pension. The way I figure it, he's finally doing right by his mama now that he's dead."

"I see." I can hear the contempt creeping into my voice so I cough into my hand, doing my best to restore my journalistic neutrality. "I've been given to understand that you have no other family. Trying to be thorough, I've looked through the death records, along with the genealogical records. Even so, I could find no record of the identity of Charles' father."

"Ain't no record. Even I don't remember his first name, seein' as how we were only married a little while. And even then, he was always on the move. Might be he's still alive and kicking somewheres." She scowls menacingly, and I am forced to avert my gaze to the Elvis-related paraphernalia lining the walls.

"I'm afraid I have another interview scheduled today so time is pressing. Let me be direct and to the point. Do you have any ideas as to who might be responsible for the death of your son? Or why?"

"Nope, no idea. I figure it was probably the guy they're holding in jail. Too bad. Good-looking fella. Rich, too. By the by, how much do you make? The way I hear it, holo-novelists rake in the credits." The predatory look in her eyes is quite horrific, and I decide then and there that I've learned as much as I possibly can from this interviewee.

"Hehe... I... make a decent living. Oh, look at the time. I'll call you if I have any further queries." I excuse myself posthaste and make a strategic retreat. Later, I will learn through other records that Charles' father was actually one Bryce Monaghan, not Monahan, who abandoned his wife of six months many years ago. This author is not led to wonder why.

_The next phase of my investigation led me to the steps of the Roman Catholic Church. The theological controversy surrounding the murder involved the mysterious initials aforementioned. Certain members of the press have already taken to calling our murderer the 'Jesus Christ Killer.' The ensuing sensationalism has generated much turmoil in religious circles. I spoke directly with Georges Thiers, a Roman Catholic priest and exorcist who had been called to assist the New York Police Dept. with their investigation. His offices were located in the New York Cathedral, elaborately adorned with shelves upon shelves of books and tomes, the works of the classical theologians and other sundries, easily worth several large fortunes._

**Interview with Reverend Georges Thiers**

"Good evening, Reverend. Thank you for taking the time to see me on such short notice." Always pleased to make the acquaintance of another erudite scholar, this Jesuit was no exception. In place of the commonplace black garb of modern priests, he was wearing a cassock, garb more traditional during the Inquisition than in 2112.

"Not at all. I'm a fan of your work, actually, and I've been looking forward to this meeting. The request for an interview was an unexpected but welcome surprise. And please, call me Father." He smiles disarmingly, but I can see that his words are carefully chosen.

"Um... yes... Father. It's always nice to meet a fan, especially an educated one. Why don't we begin with your involvement in the case. Why were you asked to assist?" My tongue stumbles over the antiquated honorific, one I'd never even used when addressing my own father.

"Well, it's actually a standard practice for the police to call in a Church consult when dealing with anything that could conceivably be related to cult practices. I investigate them on behalf of the Vatican so I am often consulted when such incidents occur."

"I see. I suppose this goes hand in hand with being an exorcist, an unusual calling if I may say so. Did you have an opportunity to examine the crime scene?" Thiers takes on a pained expression, and I assume that I've struck some kind of nerve.

"Yes, I did. I sensed an... unholy presence around the body. It was very strong and quite recent. I have never before felt its like. I must admit that I initially dismissed this 'Jesus Christ Killer' nonsense as little more than media hype, but I am now much less certain."

I'm surprised to see conviction on his face involving such an unusual comment. I would have thought that a Jesuit priest would be more reserved about making comments that might impinge upon their credibility. "Are you saying that there was some kind of demonic presence? I'm sorry, Father, but I find that difficult to accept. What did the police have to say about this... unholy presence?"

"Their opinion was much the same as yours is now. I can't really blame them. The truth is that once such corroboration by the Church is made public, occultists start popping out of the woodwork, and the last thing anyone wants is a string of copycat killings by fanatics running rampant through the city."

For the most part, I share his concern, regardless of how much such an occurrence might boost the sales of my holo-novel. "What about the man being held for the murder? The evidence seems to be fairly circumstantial. Do you have an opinion as to his guilt or innocence?"

Father Thiers takes on a grim expression before replying. "I am not a criminal investigator. That is not my specialty; neither is the law. However, I can say that the unholy presence I felt at the crime scene was quite strong, stronger than anything I had ever felt before. It was even stronger around the man being held in custody."

_I must admit to having been a bit rattled by the preceding interview. I've never really put much stock in stories about demons or the occult, dismissing it as little more than supernatural nonsense. But hearing such affirmation from one of Father Thiers' reputation was quite disconcerting. Trying to ground my investigation in more familiar and solidly-grounded territory, my next interview candidate was one Donvan Bradley, the police investigator in charge of the Special Crimes Unit that first investigated the crime scene. I had some difficulty arranging this interview, Bradley not being very much enamored of the press in general, with few exceptions. Luckily, one of those exceptions is a colleague of mine who was able to convince him to speak with me._

**Interview with Donvan Bradley**

We talked in a police interrogation room. I walked in to find the lights turned down and the lamplight directed towards my seat at the table. Was this done on purpose to make me feel uncomfortable? I believe so. I've played this game with police officers before, and I've used the tactic myself in my own line of work on many an occasion.

"Good afternoon, Detective Bradley. As I'm sure you're aware, my name is Geraldo Chung, the man that Darian told you about." I offer my hand as I squint my eyes against the light, trying to get a good look at Bradley's face and record a better image for the holo-novel. But he doesn't take my hand, and all that I can make of his appearance is that he's a very large man.

"You mean you're the man who's been pestering my office for an interview all week." His tone is quite matter-of-fact, and his demeanor is quite stern. I still can't make out his face, but even through the shadows, he's the very picture of an honest and overworked police detective. I can't quite help chuckling.

"Heh. Well, I'm nothing if not persistent as I'm sure Mr. Order has informed you. As such, the sooner you answer my questions, the sooner I'll be out of your hair." I see him lean back in his chair, preparing himself for the chore at hand.

"You're the head of the Special Crimes Unit, are you not? The one also responsible for tracking down the LegendKiller?"

"Yes." His eyes narrow together ever so slightly, and that, in combination with the one word answer, tells me that I've touched upon sensitive subject matter.

"Do you think there was any relationship between the LegendKiller and the death of Officer Monahan?" I expect some surprise or anger in response to this question. The response that I actually do get is quite unexpected.

"Bwa ha ha!" He bursts out laughing. "Charlie Monahan? A descendant of superheroes? Do you know how ludicrous that sounds?" Having gone over the late police officer's record and met his mother, I share Detective Bradley's skepticism, but my research does indicate the possibility of a link.

"Well, I believe that this LegendKiller was infatuated with the descendants of twencen heroes. My research has identified Monahan's father as one Bryce Monaghan. This Bryce Monaghan was the son of one Thomas Monaghan, better known as the Hitman, a super-powered assassin once based in Gotham City, most famous for having... regurgitated... onto the Batman." As I say this, I peek up over my datapad to look at Detective Bradley and am rewarded with an expression of stunned disbelief.

"You're sure about this? My people didn't come up with any of this on Monahan." He leans towards me, a meaty hand stretched out on the table in my direction.

"I'm not surprised. I was only able to figure this out by going through old, printed documents that my publisher has access to. The information wasn't contained in any computer records. And yes, it is true." I sometimes count it as a blessing that the owner of Hobbes Enterprises is such an old-fashioned fellow. Most major corporations destroyed print documentation decades ago in favor of computerized records. I would have to thank Gadling for his foresight.

After some time lost in thought, Bradley finally answers my initial query. "No, I don't think the two incidents are related. For one thing, an assassin for hire is hardly the picture of a hero, super-powered or not, and LK only hit targets specifically associated with heroes. For another, our mutual friend would have informed me if LK was involved in this somehow. Besides, Monahan was killed about a month too late."

"Our mutual friend? How is Darian Order involved in this?" I think to myself. It looks like I may have lots of questions for him at our next staff meeting. "Were there any clues found at the scene of the crime?"

"Nothing beyond what the press already knows. His body was found on the steps of the Church of the Elvis nuts. No clothing was found so he was probably killed somewhere else and dropped there. The autopsy showed he'd been dead less than 48 hours and killed by a bladed instrument thrust through the anal cavity. And if not for the fact that he was naked with the initials JC carved into his ass, I probably wouldn't be speaking with you now."

I have to admit that he's probably right, but I'll be damned if I'm going to say that to him out loud. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. In any case, I have just one last question for you: Do you believe that Officer Monahan was an honest policeman?" It's a simple question, but one that causes the detective's brow to furrow.

"I really couldn't say. He did his job, but I wouldn't say he did it well. He wanted to be involved in bigger things, but he just didn't have the ability. Even so, good or bad, he was a cop, and his killer is going to go down."

Hardly a committal answer, I decided to probe a bit further. "Then you believe the man in custody to be guilty?"

Bradley just smiles. "Sorry, Geraldo, but I've already answered your last question. Your going to have to look somewhere else for more answers." With that, he got up and left and had another policeman escort me out. Me and my big mouth.

_My police investigation a dead end, I decided that it was finally time to explore the religious angle of this bizarre murder. My search took me to the New York Church of the Servants to the King, the location where Monahan's body was found. Telltale traces of the body outline were still visible although the blood had been wiped clean. The reverend in charge of the New York Church was actually eager to speak with me._

**Interview with Reverend Nashville Jason Tippitt**

I'm going to have to abandon my sense of professionalism for a moment and let you know that I've always thought of these Elvis freaks as a bunch of nutballs. They remind me of the fanatics involved in the Nouveaux Romantic Movement, but instead of worhipping twencen heroes, they worship a gaudily-dressed entertainer from the same era. And they've been doing it for over a century.

"Good evening... Reverend Tippitt. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, especially considering your recent troubles and your current relocation activities." I try not to lose my professionalism while speaking with Tippitt, but sequins and sideburns combine to bring out the worst in me.

"Not at all, sahr. Ah am always glad to make the acquaintance of a non-believah, especially one of your famous reputation. In fact, Ah am a great fan of all your works as are most of my flock." Ouch. Nothing hurts a writer so much as the adulation of the mindless masses. Even so, they do help pay the bills. Tippitt's thick accent reminds me of that of a loud, cartoon chicken that was popular back in the twencen.

"Always... happy... to hear that I have fans among the faithful." I decide to try and get through this interview quickly, to keep from saying anything that I might regret later. As I avert my gaze to avoid looking him directly in the eyes, I notice computer equipment and other technological apparatus set up for installation.

"Always... happy... to hear that I have fans among the faithful." I decide to try and get through this interview quickly, to keep from saying anything that I might regret later. As I avert my gaze to avoid looking him directly in the eyes, I notice computer equipment and other technological apparatus set up for installation.

"Ah believe you wanted to ask me some questions about poor Brother Monahan, may the King rest his poor soul." Despite the thick regional accent, the sincerity in his voice helps me recover my professionalism, just in the nick of time.

"Yes, of course. First of all, I would like to ask you whether you think the murder might have been committed by some other religious organization. The initials found on... Brother Monahan... have led the media to dub his murderer the Jesus Christ Killer. Some speculate that it may have been an act of vengeance in response to events that took place in Geneva earlier this month. What are your feelings in this regard?"

"Ah can only say that Ah hope this is not the case. What happened in Geneva was perpetrated by the Reformed Church of the Servants to the King, not by the King's true faithful. Any acts of violence directed against this flock would be terribly misguided. Ah am glad to say, howevah, that many who once followed Brother Horatio have since returned to the fold."

It amazes me how he can maintain such an unfaltering smile in a continuous fashion, but I suppose he gets lots of practice. "Did you know Brother Monahan well?" I ask, trying to break through the emotionless mask that was that smile.

"Ah am afraid that I have over 300 parishioners, sahr, and Ah did not know them all as well as Ah might have liked. But he will be missed, sahr." It's the standard non-committal answer I'd expect from someone in Tippitt's position. I could press the issue, but I choose not to. I must be getting soft in my old age.

"I am also given to understand that you are moving out of this building. Does that move have anything to do with the murder of Brother Monahan? Is the new ownership at all concerned about the incident?" I tried to contact the new ownership, but they were unavailable for comment. Perhaps Tippitt can help me out here.

"Ah am not at liberty to speak on behalf of the new ownership as you call them, sahr, but Ah can tell you that our decision to move was made before poor Brother Monahan's body was discovered on our doorstep." Well, so much for that idea.

"Well then, I guess those are all the questions I have. My condolences to you and your flock on the loss of Brother Monahan." I stand up and take his hand to hear the words "Not at all, sahr" voiced in reply.

As I leave the Church, my unfortunate gaze passes sidelong to a stained-glass window depicting Elvis as Christ reborn, striking a pose at the right hand of God. God is depicted as a elderly man dressed in a white suit with a black bow tie. Those who have done enough research on the twencen would recognize the striking similarity to one Colonel Sanders, a fried-chicken mogul of that era. The metaphysical ramifications are quite disturbing to one of my delicate sensibilities.

_The only interview left to be taken was that of the man being held in custody. Police records indicate that an anonymous phone call informed the police that Monahan's murderer would be found at the New York Church of the Servants to the King, seated in the rearmost pew, and smoking a cigarette. The suspect was found and arrested, and small traces of Monahan's DNA were found on him. I tracked him down to Three Mile Island, the NorAm correctional facility centrally located between Metropolis, Gotham, and New York City. It was transformed into a prison when nuclear power became obsolete, its radiation-proof walls well-suited to the containment of all manner of prisoners, including metas. Reserved for high-profile criminals, it was no surprise that the Jesus Christ Killer was being incarcerated there._

**Interview with the Jesus Christ Killer**

For the benefit of those readers who have never been to prison, there is a considerable difference in cell quality for voting citizens and non-voting citizens. Whereas the former could actually be considered lavish, the latter is nothing more than squalid. I found that my current interviewee was being held in the former, an individual cell complete with holovision and external communication lines. I took a seat outside the cell and signaled the guard when I was ready, and the force field was modulated to allow sound to pass through freely.

"...Yeah, Hob, I know I'm in a pickle, but it isn't my fault, mate." He was on the phone. Perhaps he was talking to his attorney. "Hell no, I was there on other business. How the hell was I supposed to know that fat fuck had been dumped there." He seemed quite irritable for some reason, but prison will do that, I suppose.

"Yes, I read the damned papers, but I skipped over that Jesus Christ Killer shite. Would you have put that name together with mine..?" At this point, he notices me seated outside his cell and turns his gaze from left to right before getting back to the phone. "Sorry about the rant, Hob. Call you back later." Lighting up a cigarette, he finally addresses me.

"What the hell do you want?" The look in his eyes is quite disconcerting, the steady gaze hard and unrelenting. My own eyes pass to the trench coat and Armani jacket hanging on the wall, and I whistle through my teeth considering the fabulous wealth that they represent. The way he was looking at me, I had no doubt that this man was capable of murder, but the question as to whether he was guilty of this particular murder remained unanswered.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop on your conversation. My name is Geraldo Chung, and I'm writing a holo-novel about the murder you're being held for. Perhaps you've heard of me?" I make a motion to shake his hand, but I stop, smile, wave, and chuckle before actually touching the force field.

"Geraldo? Nope. Haven't a clue as to who you are. But whatever you're selling, I'm not interested." I'm momentarily stunned by his rude comments. Hadn't he read any of my holo-novels? The man was obviously an uncultured boob despite his wealth.

"Well, I'm afraid you're interest has nothing to do with it. The Warden has agreed to allow this interview, and I'm not leaving until I get some answers." I try to sound determined, but I'm certain my efforts are pointless with this man.

"Suit yourself, but you may be in for a long wait." He lays himself down on the mattress in his cell and closes his eyes, apparently trying to shut me out.

"Be difficult if you want, but you'd be surprised how much public opinion can sway the opinions of a Judge. My holo-novel could do a lot to help your case." Maybe he would be more reasonable if he had something to gain. Judging by his clothes, money alone wouldn't do much to sway him in his decision. He ignores me for a few minutes before finally re-acknowledging my existence.

"Alright, then. Ask away. Just be quick about it. What do you want to know, Geraldo?" He says my name as if there's some stigma attached to it that I don't know about. Even so, I ignore the barbs. After all, he was willing to answer my questions.

"Did you kill a police officer named Charles Monahan?" Always ask the most pressing question first, I always say, at least when the interviewees are being difficult.

"Cut right to the quick, don't ya?" He actually has the audacity to smirk in my general direction. "No, I didn't kill him, and I didn't hire anyone to do it either. I'm going to say the same on the lie detector and pass. Anything else?"

"Well, that's going to reduce some interest," I think to myself. Maybe there's some way to salvage that. "Alright, then. You're not guilty. If that's true, then why are the police holding you? What were you doing in the Church of the Servants to the King when they found you?"

He grimaces distastefully as if disgusted by his own stupidity. "It was just a bloody coincidence. I got a phone call telling me that Elvis' ghost wanted to talk to me there so I went. Or maybe it was Elvis' angel. Something like that."

I can't help being amused. "You went? How gullible are you?" I momentarily lose my professionalism again but quickly recover. "I'm sorry, but you're answer surprised me. Who did the call come from?"

"Haven't the foggiest. I was kinda in my cups at the time. Otherwise, I would never have made such a stupid mistake. Well, maybe not."

I find it difficult to believe that anyone could have bad luck on this high a scale. "So it was a mysterious phone call that sent you to the church that nigh? My information says that it was an anonymous phone call that told the police that they would find Monahan's killer there. What do you make of that?"

At this, he narrows his eyes, and you can sort of tell that he's screaming bloody murder, despite the fact that he makes no sound. "Probably just another coincidence. Shit happens, mate, and when it does, it usually happens to me."

"Yeah, right" I think to myself, but I can tell I'm not going to get any further with this conversation. "Alright then, just one more question. I need a name besides Jesus Christ Killer for my book, and the authorities are surprisingly closed mouthed about revealing your identity. What do you call yourself?"

He levels his gaze at me again and takes a long drag off of his cigarette before replying. "My name is Constantine. John Constantine. Make sure ya get it spelled right."

"Very well. Thank you for your time, Mr. Constantine. I hope the trial goes well for you." Actually, I doubt that it will, but far be it from me to dash a doomed man's hopes, at least not in person. Perhaps he doesn't realize that the initials match.

"JOHN CONSTANTINE WILL SOON STAND TRIAL FOR THE MURDER OF OFFICER CHARLES MONAHAN. DETECTIVE BRADLEY AND HIS DEPARTMENT HAVE DISCONTINUED THEIR INVESTIGATION BECAUSE NO OTHER SUSPECTS OR EVIDENCE HAVE PRESENTED THEMSELVES. MONAHAN WILL NOT BE MISSED BY HIS MOTHER, BUT SHE WILL BE PRESENT AT THE TRIAL OF HIS SUPPOSED KILLER. BRYCE MONAGHAN COULD NOT BE FOUND FOR COMMENT, BUT PERHAPS HE WILL APPEAR AT THE TRIAL AS WELL. REVEREND TIPPITT AND HIS CONGREGATION REMEMBER HIM WELL SO PERHAPS HE IS A FLYING ELVIS NOW, A GUARDIAN ANGEL WATCHING OVER THE CITY HE ONCE SERVED AS A POLICE OFFICER. HAVING MET THE MAN, I AM FORCED TO WONDER WHETHER JOHN CONSTANTINE IS GUILTY OR INNOCENT, DESPITE HIS PROTESTATIONS INSISTING ON THE LATTER. THE PROSECUTION HAS CALLED FATHER THIERS TO TESTIFY AS THEIR WITNESS. AS SUCH, IT WOULD SEEM THAT THE JUSTICE DEPARTMENT IS GIVING CREDENCE TO THE POSSIBILITY THAT JOHN CONSTANTINE IS ASSOCIATED WITH AN OCCULTIST MOVEMENT. REGARDLESS, HIS STORY WILL BE CONTINUED, AND PERHAPS CONCLUDED, AT TRIAL NEXT MONTH."

_About the Author: Geraldo Chung was born in Metropolis in the year 2065, the grandson of the twencen author José Chung. He graduated from Gotham University in the year 2085 and now holds several doctorates in Journalism, History, and Communications. A holo-novelist famous for documentaries, his previous works include Inside the UN and The Justice League Agenda. "The Jesus Christ Killer" is his 24th holo-novel. Geraldo Chung's next series, "_Spandex Spotlight_," will be available soon._

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #5_ -


	6. Trial & Error

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #6**

_"Trial & Error"_

Written and Edited by David Lee

**NorAm: Three Mile Island Correctional Facility**

"I'm sorry, Mr. Constantine, but you're going to have to be more candid with me about your past." John smiled wryly at the barrister that Hob had hired for him. A pretty little thing she was, with red hair and green eyes. And she probably had a really nice smile, not that she was inclined to show it just now.

"What are you doing after the trial?" John asked for the third time, a smirk becoming evident on his features as his defender became even more exasperated with him. But as far as he was concerned, their relationship was progressing swimmingly.

"Mr. Constantine! Perhaps you don't realize that your life is at stake here? The media has already been turned against you, and you're going on trial for the murder of a police officer in less than a week! Can we please return our attention to the business at hand?" As her client's defender, she was required to believe in his innocence, but she was forced to wonder what kind of amoral savage would try pick up lines on his attorney within the walls of a maximum security prison. "And I prefer that our relationship remain professional only. Please address me as Ms. Walker."

"Anything you say, luv," said John, becoming even more smug. A mild, throbbing sensation began building between Rachel's temples, and a slight groan passed between her lips. This case was just a high-profile headache, and if it had been anyone but Robert Gadling asking her to do this, and as a personal favor no less, she would have dropped it long since. Nothing was worth this kind of aggravation.

"Fine, then. Have it your way," said Rachel, punching a few keys on her datapad. "John Constantine," she began, repeating what scrolled onto its screen. "Born in London on April 1st in the year 2170." She raised an eyebrow. "April 1st?"

"God has a bizarre sense of humor," said John, still looking smug, despite the fact that Hob had had far too much fun at his expense while creating this false identity for him.

"Educated at the Alfred Pennyworth School for Wayward Boys in Liverpool," continued Rachel. "No further education and no home address. All mail is received care of Robert Gadling. No other information available," she said, raising an eyebrow. "There seems to be a large hole in your personal history. Would you care to fill me in?"

"Fillin' holes is me specialty, luv," said John, the double meaning behind his words eminently clear. The way that Rachel gritted her teeth at this remark only served to encourage him further, but he decided to take pity on her and relent. "Heh. Let's just say that I've done a lot of backpacking 'round the world since me school days ended. Been lucky enough to stumble across a few antiques in me travels that've turned me some coin, most of it from Hob Gadling."

"I see. So your relationship with Mr. Gadling is a professional one, then?" Rachel had always been curious about the enigmatic Robert Gadling. One of the richest men in the world, very little was really known about him. Unlike other mega millionaires like Tim Drake and Alexi Luthor who showed up at holovized gala events on a regular basis, he rarely appeared in any newscasts.

"Hell no, luv. Hob and me, we're mates. We go back a long ways and we've been through thick and thin together." John closed his eyes as he reminisced about old times. "Hob was quite the adventurer back in his day."

"I see." She pursed her lips in a pensive fashion that John mistook for enticing. She thought to herself that perhaps she'd be better off discussing John's personal history with Gadling instead. Then, maybe she'd get some straight answers. "And you insist on a plea of not guilty? You're certain that you won't consider a plea of temporary insanity?"

John hardened his gaze. "I didn't kill him, luv. Loony bins and I just don't get along, and I'll not be put in one." Unspoken, the word 'again' reverberated through both Rachel's and John's thoughts.

"Very well, then," said Rachel, getting to her feet. "I think I've learned everything I'm going to here pertaining to this case." She reached into her briefcase,and pulled out two items, a carton of Dunhills and an old-style hardcover novel, handing them over to John. "Mr. Gadling asked me to deliver these to you."

John ignored the priceless antique and pulled the carton of Dunhills to his nostrils, inhaling deeply. "Good old Hob."

**NorAm: Hobbes Tower, New York City**

Hobbes Tower had replaced the World Trade Center a few decades ago. An enormous structure, it was practically a self-contained city, with floors upon floors of shops, apartments, and schools as well as a few dedicated floors for botanical and zoological gardens, aquariums, and museums. It was a kingdom and a castle all in one, and its ruler was Robert Gadling.

Thank God these elevators are fast, thought Rachel to herself as she made her way to the Penthouse. Checking her hair in the mirror, she listened to the classical tunes that Gadling favored in his private elevator. What was that playing now? Debussy? She sat down on the antique wooden bench and admired the potted plant, waiting for the elevator to reach its destination.

The doors opened to reveal a hallway lined by glass cases. Rachel often wondered where Mr. Gadling acquired his eclectic antiquities: the original Diary of Anne Frank and Umberto Eco's first doctoral thesis, Jimmy Stewart's Army Air Corps uniform, and a cello that once belonged to Yo-Yo Ma. Her employer's taste in antiquities was considered quite unusual in an age when superheroic paraphernalia was all the rage.

She found Hob opening some old cardboard boxes in the middle of his living room. Through the large, picture window, she could see the smoking remains of what was once the Statue of Liberty that marred the otherwise beautiful view. "Good afternoon, Mr. Gadling. Thank you for agreeing to see me."

Hob looked up from what he was doing to greet his visitor. "Rachel, we've been over this before. Call me anything but Mr. Gadling. And it's no trouble. After all, you're the one that's doing me a favor," said Hob, smiling as he went back to work. "A few costumes from the old Monkees television show. I've made a new business acquaintance who's a fan so I decided to pull this stuff out of mothballs for him. Anyway, what can I do to help you?"

Old TV show? Hob's knowledge of history and trivia never failed to impress her and probably never would. "Sorry, Robert. I talked to your friend, and I have to say that he's one of the most frustrating clients I've ever had to defend. He was being difficult about his personal history so I thought I'd be better off asking you."

Hob raised an eyebrow. "Did you now? Well, I suppose I should have warned you about John right off. He's really a good guy, though, and we've been friends a long time. Still, he can be a God-awful prick when he wants to." Hob shook his head, fearing for the fate of his friend. "Isn't that right, Barnabas?"

Hearing the commotion, Barnabas walked in. He took one look at Rachel and started barking. "Wow, she's a looker. This is the lawyer you hired to protect John? What were you thinking?" he said, running up to Rachel and licking her face. Rachel gave Barnabas a quick hug, rubbing his back.

"Where did you get this beautiful dog, Robert? He's so friendly!"

Hob rolled his eyes, wondering what it was that made beautiful women ignore men and lavish their affection on furry animals instead. "Actually, Barnabas is a friend of John's who's staying with me while he's in prison. Barnabas, this is John's attorney, Ms. Rachel Walker. She's defending John as a personal favor to me. Now, I owe her one."

Barnabas turned to face Rachel more formally, standing tall and straight, and extended a paw. "Well met, miss." Naturally, Rachel didn't hear a word that Barnabas said, suggesting that the charm that John had placed on his collar was working properly.

"Isn't he just the cutest, most darling thing!" exclaimed Rachel, petting Barnabas more vigorously. "I can't believe he belongs to John Constantine of all people. Speaking of whom, what in the world were you thinking, publishing a holo-novel about the 'Jesus Christ Killer?' Do you have any idea how damaging that was to your friend's case?"

"Don't blame me. That was all John's idea. Said if they were going to lock him up in prison over this, he might as well make some money off of it and defray his legal expenses. John likes playing fast and loose with other people's rules. Sometimes, I think he likes it far too much for his own good." This was an understatement, but Hob didn't want to unnerve Rachel any more than necessary.

"But that's crazy! Doesn't he realize his life's at stake here?" At this, Barnabas turned to lock his gaze with Hob's. They looked into each other's eyes and nodded acknowledgement to each other.

"Let's just say that John has more important things to worry about than living or dying."

**NorAm: Hall of Justice, New York City**

"All rise! This court is now in session, the Honorable Thomas Hancock presiding!" yelled the Bailiff, calling the courtroom to order. No longer open to the general public, the courtroom was filled with journalists who would later edit the material and holovize it for the wealthy, who could afford the coded satellite channels that had replaced cable in the mid-21st century.

The Judge entered the room with a scowl already on his features. Judge Hancock had had something of a noteworthy, if not distinguished, career. He'd started out chasing ambulances and eventually won enough cases to be drafted by the insurance companies. Soon after, he'd been called into UN service on behalf of the Justice League and eventually made a judge in the criminal court, bypassing several career district attorneys. Why? Because he'd come to understand that justice was not about right or wrong. Justice was about money.

Pounding his gavel, Hancock seated himself on the bench. "Alright counselors, what do you have for me today?" He looked up at the two attorneys standing before him and noted that they were both impeccably dressed, that they were both familiar faces in his courtroom, and that the counsel for the defense was very pretty.

"The People vs. John Constantine, your Honor, better known as the Jesus Christ Killer," said the District Attorney. An out-of-work actor turned lawyer, Grisham Darden was one of the most successful attorneys to ever serve in that office. He knew how to present a case, and he knew how to lie with conviction. That's what good lawyering is all about.

"Objection, your Honor. My client is not and is in no way associated with that biblical figure. And I find the introduction of such media sensationalism in a court of law to be in very bad taste. Especially when the evidence is almost entirely circumstantial."

"I don't know, Counselor. Your client looks pretty guilty to me," said Hancock, shuffling through the papers on his desk. "And his trial should bring in a lot of ratings. Despite your objections, your client will go to trial. First thing tomorrow. Court is adjourned," he finished, pounding his gavel to make it official.

Rachel thought that he might as well have pounded it on her head. John would be going to trial, possibly even taking the stand and speaking in his own defense. This was not good.

**Western Eurasia: Star Labs, London**

Charles Patterson stared long and hard at Harry Constantine's undead features. Slowly, the deteriorated flesh was growing back and Harry was becoming whole again. He floated there, naked as the day he was born all those centuries ago. Soon he would be ready to walk freely amongst the living again.

"How are things proceeding?" asked Charles Patterson V. He had never really bothered with scientific studies himself, knowing that he was destined for a career in politics. Still, the process fascinated him, and he found it all quite fascinating.

Dr. Forrester responded quickly, not wanting to offend the son of a UN representative. "He seems to be doing quite well, sir. The nutrient bath is quite stable and the cellular regeneration rate is consistent with our expectations. Everything looks good to go, but I'm not sure I see the point in regenerating the tissues of a corpse."

Charles smiled. It was quite understandable that a scientist would be curious as to what this was all about, but Charles was under strict orders not to divulge anything. "You would do well not to ask such questions about my father's non-public activities, Doctor. It will be much healthier for you long term."

Dr. Forrester paled visibly and nodded his understanding. "Yes, of course. Please excuse my intrusion upon his Lordship's privacy. It shall not happen again." He quickly excused himself and left to check some other instruments. "This equipment is usually used for cloning. I'd better go over them one more time, just in case."

Charles' smile grew even wider having witnessed this reaction. Funny how quickly one becomes accustomed to wielding power and ruling by fear, he thought to himself. Yes, he was starting to understand his father better now that he'd partially stepped into his shoes.

**NorAm: Hall of Justice, New York City**

"All rise! This court is now in session, the Honorable Thomas Hancock presiding." The bailiff's words resounded eerily through the room as the pounding of the judge's gavel put an end to whispered conversation that had been taking place. Hancock sat at the bench with a look of mild confusion on his face, not that anyone noticed.

"May it please the court, my name is Grisham Darden, and I would like to speak on behalf of the people against John Constantine. Charged with the murder of a police officer, he is being prosecuted for one count of murder in the first degree," said Darden proudly, his words echoing through the chamber. He was nothing if not photogenic, and he was very popular with the media for precisely that reason.

Darden's fine clothes and dashing figure impressed Hancock immensely. Indeed, he reminded him much of the knights of Camelot and the days when trial by combat was the law of the land. His words resounded with the ring of a fine sword striking a well-made shield. However, his words did not ring of the truth. Indeed, this foul knight was known to him as a perpetrator of falsehoods who cared more for his personal holdings than for honor. Indeed, he was a poor choice of champion for the cause of justice.

Returning to the business at hand, Judge Hancock turned from the prosecution to address the defense. "And how would the defendant like to plead?"

"May it please the court, my name is Rachel Walker, and I would like to speak on behalf of the defendant, John Constantine. The defendant pleas not guilty, your Honor," she said, doing her best to match Darden's conviction, knowing that she held her client's life and future in her hands. A fairly new presence in the New York City legal scene, the media was quite eager to document her performance in this high-profile case.

To Hancock's eyes, Rachel Walker was a lovely young maid doing her best to defend her man against unjust accusations. Indeed, only love could bring such a noble lass to defend such a scurrilous rogue. Taking but one glance at the smirk upon the accused's face, the judge quickly surmised that he was a liar and a thief, a man who had blood on his hands.

But looking at the strength in the bearing of the lady defending him, the judge could only hope that this varlet was not in fact guilty for the lady's sake. After all, killing a king's lawman was a crime that merited the executioner's axe.

The accused just sat there smugly, impeccably dressed in fashions that had somehow become timeless, the worn appearance of the trench coat draped over the back of his chair contrasting sharply with the fine, silk cut of his suit. Curiously, his hands were resting on top of a book, a hardback novel by all appearances and probably worth a small fortune.

"May it please the court, the prosecution would like to remove one of the witnesses that it has called to testify," said Darden. He was uncomfortable with last minute changes in his court cases, knowing that the court frowned upon them. "I'm afraid that Father Thiers has made himself unavailable."

The clergy was refusing to speak against this man? To Hancock's mind, that boded well. "Was any reason given for his failure to appear at these proceedings?"

"Ahem... I'm afraid that the good priest is under orders from the Vatican not to testify," said Darden while trying to loosen his collar, knowing that this admission might do much to damage his case.

And as far as Judge Hancock was concerned, it was a certainty. The Church of Rome itself would not stand against this man? He knew well that the papacy was not so easily cowed and understood that the accused must be a man of great influence. Either that, or he was innocent.

"Then given that the rest of the prosecution's evidence is entirely circumstantial, I move that all charges be dismissed. Mr. Constantine has already taken and passed a lie detector test stating that he did not kill Officer Monahan and I see no reason to detain my client any longer." Rachel's words, resounded not only with the truth, but also with hope.

Darden was quick to interject. "Yes, but he has also refused to undergo a telepathic scan. His refusal clearly indicates that he is guilty of some other crime, even if not that for which he stands accused."

Judge Hancock narrowed his gaze. He couldn't quite remember when due process had last been thrown to the wind, but he knew that Darden's objection was a lawful one. Indeed, the lords of this land ruled with an iron fist and it irked him that he was agent of these dark powers. His gaze passed to the jackbooted UN security forces lining the courtroom's entrances and exits, black knights that surely served no good purpose.

The judge found it passing strange that these things had never bothered him before. He could see no reason why an individual's refusal to be made subject to this sorcerous practice called a telepathic scan should be held against him. As such, he decided then and there to put an end to the act of injustice playing itself out before him.

"Your objections are noted, Mr. Darden, but this court does not require any more evidence to prove his innocence. The charges against Mr. Constantine are dropped herewith. Case dismissed." The pounding of the judge's gavel made his ruling official. And the only person more stunned by the verdict than Grisham Darden was Rachel Walker.

**Western Eurasia: The Cambridge Club, London**

The holovized news services were already calling it the shortest and most unorthodox trial of the century, but Lord Patterson was hardly surprised by the not-guilty verdict. He had been surprised when the Honorable Thomas Hancock resigned from the bench to pursue a new career doing pro-bono legal work. Yes, this John Constantine was a most extraordinary adversary. Indeed, uncorrupting a career UN judge was no simple task.

Even so, Lord Patterson was quite pleased with the results of his first gambit against his family's most hated enemy. A guilty verdict would have been icing on the cake, but the true objective of this move was to expose the fact that John Constantine was alive and in New York on planetary holovision. After all, Constantine had to have other enemies outside of the Patterson family.

It mattered not to Lord Patterson which piece it was that removed John Constantine from the playing field so long as he was removed permanently. And if all went according to plan, Constantine would soon find himself consistently in check.

**NorAm: New York City, "Warriors"**

Following the conclusion of the trial, Rachel, John, and Hob congregated at Guy Gardner's establishment for a small celebration. "To victory!" they all said in unison, clinking their pints together. They were all feeling pretty good, but Rachel was still slightly stunned.

"I can't believe we won," she said, staring at her Guinness. The news services were all still abuzz about the upset in the verdict and Judge Hancock's resignation.

"You were that certain that I was guilty, were you?" The words were accusational, but John's tone was light. So was his smile.

"It's not just that," said Rachel jokingly. "I know Judge Hancock, and this is totally out of character. He wrote the book on modern criminal procedure and what he just did today isn't in it. Unless, of course, there was a bribe of some sort involved." Hob and John both did their best to look shocked.

"Don't look at me. I was busy with my Monkees paraphernalia," said Hob, drowning further comment in a long sip of the black stuff.

"And don't look at me, neither," said John. "I was in prison."

"Then how would you explain the verdict?" she asked.

John just shrugged. "Maybe I just live right." Hob and Rachel both let that comment pass, and John snickered. "Who knows why anyone does anything? Here, Rach, a present for you." John slid a book across the table, the one that Hob had loaned to him, the one that he'd had close at hand during the trial.

"No, I couldn't," said Rachel, pushing it back. "It must be worth a fortune."

"Maybe, luv, but I value my freedom more. Please, I insist. And if there's ever anything else you need me for, all you have to do is ask." It was yet another obvious pass, the kind that John Constantine was known for.

"I'll let you know," she said, winking at Hob, who winked back. John could only guess that he'd committed himself to something that he would later regret, not what he'd had in mind.

The novel in question was a copy of Cervantes' work entitled "Don Quixote de la Mancha."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #6_ -


	7. Dreaming & Waking

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #7**

_"Dreaming & Waking"_

Written and Edited by David Lee

_A little girl was walking through the woods. The woods were dark and very frightening, and music was playing eerily somewhere in the distance. It sounded like it was being played on a violin, an instrument that the little girl had spent hours upon hours practicing as a child. But she was still a child, wasn't she? The woods were all around her and filled with nasty things. Big bad wolves, witches in gingerbread houses, and woodsmen that weren't as kindly as people liked to believe. But the little girl knew that as long as she didn't stray from the path, she would be alright. The many voices were tempting, but she knew better than to listen to any of them._

* * *

**NorAm: The Waldorf Astoria, New York City**

"You want me to what?" asked John, a look of startled surprise plastered across his features, a look that many who knew him would have paid a fortune to see.

"You said you owed me, John, and I aim to collect. I want you to baby-sit my son at his birthday party." The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact manner, but her lips bore just the hint of a smile.

"But people think I'm the Jesus Christ Killer for Christ's sake! I went to trial for it. You were there! And you want me to watch over a bunch of kids? You must be daft, luv. What kind of mother are you?"

Rachel didn't even blink. "A busy one. Besides, you were found innocent, something that the Bar Association says shouldn't have been possible. I have a bunch of cases hitting trial next month and dozens of new clients, things I owe to having successfully defended you, so in a way, you're to blame."

"So? Maybe the legal system just screwed up again! Do you really want to take that kind of chance with someone you hardly know?" asked John, trying to break down Rachel's resolve.

"Robert Gadling vouches for you so I know you're a good man. He also thought it was a good idea when I suggested it to him." That hint of a smile on her lips became slightly more obvious.

"Oh, he did, did he?" The calculating look in his eyes promised a terrible vengeance, or at the least a nasty surprise, for his old friend.

Rachel just shook her head, wondering how a grown man could find such a simple chore so distasteful. "Look, you haven't said no, and I'm not about to let you off the hook. So like it or not, you're stuck helping me watch over my son and all his little friends." Finally, a smile broke out completely. "The party's this afternoon, and I'll expect you to show up at 3:00 on the dot."

I can just hear it now, thought John to himself. John Constantine: Babysitter. He'd never live it down.

"Bloody hell."

* * *

_Finally, the little girl was through the darkness and past the monsters in the wood. The eerie melody of the violin had given way to the joyful strains of a fiddle. It was a green and vibrant place with a clear and bright sky, and in the center of it all, Grandmother and Grandmother were waiting._

_"Little One, is that you?" asked Grandmother, her voice kind and gentle. Violet tresses framed her beautiful face, and love shone through her eyes. The little girl called her Grandmother, but she was actually her great great grandmother._

_"Of course, it's Granddaughter," said Grandmother, her voice irritable but kindly. "Who else would know not to listen?" Rainbow tresses framed Grandmother's face, which was so similar to the little girl's own. Grandmother was always amused by Granddaughter, and her visits did much to lift her spirits now that she was dead._

_"Yes, Grandmother and Grandmother. I've come to visit you again. I'm sorry it's been so long, but I've grown up since last I visited," said the little girl. Indeed, she was fully-grown and already a woman in the eyes of all but these two, and even the two grandmothers appeared younger than they actually were. In fact, all three women appeared to be the exact same age._

* * *

**NorAm: Hobbes Tower, New York City**

For as long as Rachel could remember, Robert Gadling had been a friend of the family. Even as a child, he'd been like an uncle to her, and in some ways, he was the only family she had left besides her own son. At the age of seventeen, she'd run away from home to be with her high school sweetheart who'd died before they could be married, killed for the meager credits he'd had in his pockets, but not before leaving her pregnant. Her parents had all but disowned her when they found out.

With nowhere else to go, she'd been forced to turn to Uncle Robert for help. She could not have found more welcoming or fatherly arms. Indeed, he took care of all her medical expenses and saw to her education as well after Byron was born, and she owed him more than she could ever hope to repay, but one day, repay him she would.

One of the nicer suites in Hobbes Tower, John had little trouble finding Rachel's apartment. Over the decades, John had learned to keep his promises so he showed up in spite of his own insecurities. However, he also dragged Barnabas here with him.

"Just what am I doing here, exactly?" asked Barnabas, wondering what John was about.

"You're here to keep these wee ones from eating me alive," said John, putting out his cigarette after taking one last drag. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm his nerves, and steeled himself for what he was certain would be a harrowing experience.

"Oh grow up, John. It's a child's birthday party, not slave labor. How much trouble can a room full of children possibly be?"

* * *

_"Greetings, Little One, and welcome! It's nice of you to visit us," said Grandmother, greeting the little girl with a crushing embrace. The little girl hugged her back without having to reach up and realized that she wasn't a little girl anymore._

_"How did I get so big?" asked the little girl, no longer certain where she was or what she was doing here. The fiddler in the distance suddenly stopped his playing, and it suddenly seemed strange to her that she should be speaking with two ancestors who were long since dead. "Where am I?" she asked._

_"Someplace weird and scary," said Grandmother, who hugged the little girl fiercely. The words were terribly familiar, and it was then that she realized that she was dreaming._

_"What the hell is going on?"_

* * *

**NorAm: Hobbes Tower, New York City**

John sat on the couch despondently, his hands pressed against his temples, groaning inwardly. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but decent people didn't smoke in front of children. Neither did he. The party had only been going on for a half hour, but John had already submitted to defeat.

Indeed, Barnabas regretted his earlier words. Looking about at the rampant chaos, he could hardly rationalize how quickly the children had set about to wreaking havoc with wild abandon. There were 12 children in all, and they were all brats as far as Barnabas was concerned, whose sensitive tail had never been yanked so many times.

Next to John on the couch, Erik kept jumping up and down yelling "I'm Batman! I'm Batman!" over and over, having used a magic marker to draw a bat on the front of his shirt. Jessie was crying in a corner because Carey had told everyone he was fat. The other children were keeping busy acting out John's trial, pronouncing him guilty. Tobie's defense had been less than sterling although his Jack Nicholson impression had been pretty good. "The truth? You can't handle the truth!"

John had no idea whose idea it had been to dream up an event where children were traditionally hyped up on sugar and allowed to run wild, let alone an annual one. Probably someone who'd never had kids. He didn't exactly have a happy childhood of his own to draw on for guidance, and his experiences with Tim and Gemma had been less than instructive.

When it finally became clear that John wasn't going to be able to restore order, Barnabas relented, stopped snickering, and took charge of the situation. "Children, please settle down and behave yourselves." The words were spoken calmly, but the ensuing silence was almost frightening. It lasted for a few minutes until it was finally broken by the birthday boy himself.

Byron pointed at Barnabas, looked at John, and commented. "Wow, your dog talks!" This bizarre statement was quickly followed by additional comments like "Cool" and "Just like Sherman and Mr. Peabody." The latter comment made John scowl menacingly. Barnabas just resumed his snickering.

"That's really neato keeno!" said Paul. "Did you learn to talk in school or something? Can you read? Come on, you can tell me." The other children quickly picked up on his line of questioning. Cries of "Yeah, can you read?" and "Did you go to school?" popped up throughout their midst.

"Seems like the peanut gallery is a lot more interested in you than in me," said John. Why don't you keep them entertained while I go check on Rachel and keep her busy." Grinning smugly, he left the room, leaving Barnabas to the tender mercies of the children.

"Thanks a whole bunch," said Barnabas, who pounded his tail rhythmically while trying to think of something clever to say.

After making a quick sweep through the house, John found Rachel in the den, slumped over her desk and fast asleep.

* * *

_"Grandma Rose? Is that you?" asked Rachel. "You look so young." She eyed the figure of her grandmother in wonder, the rainbow coloring of her hair so different from the iron gray that she remembered._

_"Of course, it's me, silly. This is what I looked like when I was your age," said Rose, doing an awkward pirouette to better show off her garments, a pair of torn jeans and a black t-shirt. "And what an age that was!" she smiled, rejoicing in her lost youth._

_The young woman before her was a stark contrast to the conservatively dressed woman that had been Rachel's grandmother before she had died some fifteen years ago, but Rachel recognized her from old photographs and paintings at her family's estate. The woman beside her was unrecognizable, but her resemblance to Rose was close enough for Rachel to guess that she was family._

_Noting her mixed look of confusion and curiosity, the other young woman with the violet tresses in the elegant-looking evening gown introduced herself. "My name is Unity. I'm Rose's grandmother and your great great grandmother, and I'm terribly pleased to finally be able to talk to you properly, Rachel."_

_"But how can this be? Both of you should be long dead. How is it that I'm talking to you? What's going on? What is this place?" Dazed by her own thoughts, Rachel moved to sit down and collapsed onto the grass and wildflowers. Wherever she was, the landscape had a lush beauty to it._

_"This is the Dreaming. You're here so we can have a long overdue heart to heart. We're three separated generations of the same bloodline, and we have more in common than just our bloodline," said Unity, whose face suddenly showed signs of wrinkles, wrinkles of concern._

_Rose's lips were twisted in a manner sufficient to convey the same emotion, and when she spoke, that concern rang clear. "Rachel, we're here to talk to you about the vortex."_

* * *

**NorAm: Hobbes Tower, New York City**

John sat himself down at the kitchen table and was just about to light a cigarette when Byron walked in. Zippo in hand, he hesitated long enough to look Byron in the eye before putting it away. "Bored with the talking dog already, are we?" asked John, wondering what Byron was up to.

"Oh, I've read all kinds of books about talking animals" said Byron, hands in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Meeting a talking dog doesn't really impress me much."

"Oh, really? Like what?" asked John, trying to bore Byron into leaving him alone so he could have his cigarette.

"Oh, all kinds of books. 'Animal Farm' by George Orwell, the 'Tao of Pooh' by Benjamin Hoff, and all kinds of other stuff that was more fun to read. Do you like reading?" asked Byron, looking up at John and eying him curiously.

"Sort of. Depends on what I'm reading. 'Tom Jones' is always a good read." John had been wondering what was wrong with kids these days, and Byron's choice of reading material explained a lot. But then again, Byron wasn't exactly an ordinary kid. "But when I was your age, I didn't care much for reading. Spent more time wondering what I was gonna be when I grew up."

"Really? I always figured I'd grow up to be a lawyer like my mom. What did you want to be? Is that what you're doing now?" asked Byron.

"Not exactly." No one grew up wanting to walk this particular path, and John pitied any poor bastard that did. "When I was your age, I wanted to grow up to be a footballer, a goalie." A smile suddenly crossed over John's features. "Guess that means I didn't really want to grow up, eh?"

Byron stared up at John, wondering whether he ever did grow up. He certainly wasn't like any other adults he'd ever met. He didn't really know why, but Byron understood that growing up was all about rules. Rules didn't seem to apply to John, and Byron thought that was really neat. "So... did you bring me a birthday present?"

John's smile widened. Maybe there was hope for this kid, after all. "To tell you the truth, I think that kids should give presents to their moms on their birthdays as sort of a thank you present, you know? But what kind of arse shows up a birthday party without a present for the birthday boy? Not this one." With that, John reached into his pocket and pulled out a small package wrapped in blue paper with a bright red bow, handing it to Byron whose face lit up.

"Wow, thanks John." Byron opened the present right there to find a strangely-crafted wooden box that looked like an antique of sorts. "Wow, this looks like real wood." He opened the box to find a small, toy soldier inside in the shape of a palace guard at what was once Buckingham Palace. Byron had never seen anything like it before, and having it made him feel special.

"That toy soldier was my best friend when I was little, and as long as you have it, you'll never be alone. That's important when you're a kid with only one parent." Especially when your family's been touched by magic for generations, thought John.

* * *

_"So let me get this straight," began Rachel, still sitting on the grass. "Unity is my great great grandmother, and she was supposed to be the original vortex, but she got hit with some sleeping sickness that kept it from manifesting so instead it was passed down through two generations until it his Grandma Rose. Is that right?" she asked._

_"Exactly, I think. Sort of," said Rose. "Unity kept Mr. Sandman from killing me by destroying the vortex back when I was your age. I'd thought that was the end of it until now." A look of grandmotherly concern that Rachel remembered well appeared on Rose's features._

_"And I'm supposed to have inherited some power from the vortex that messes up other people's dreams? I'm sorry, but that's just a little bit out there. I mean, how do you know it's true? Why should I believe you?" Like any good lawyer, Rachel required proof. The two women claiming to be her ancestors had presented their case, and it was about time that they presented some facts._

_"Not just a dream but a waking dream," said Unity. "Something that no one other than the Dream King should be able to instill in man, a dream that crosses over the boundary into the waking world, infecting a persons thoughts while they do not lie sleeping. Shall I tell you of what we saw?"_

_Rachel nodded for Unity to continue, somehow dreading the answer that her rational mind told her must be preposterous but her pounding heart insisted must be the truth._

_"We saw a man wearing the robes of a judge. Suddenly, his robes were transformed into the armor of a knight of old, and he was standing at the head of a council of knights. He stood in judgement as a black knight and a lady underwent trial by combat. The justiciar named the lady victorious, not because she was true but because the black knight was false. That lady was you."_

_Stunned confusion was all that could be read in Rachel's expression. "You... you're talking about the trial. You're saying that I won because I'm part of this vortex... that book John was holding..." Her words trailed off as the forest around her started to blur. "Wait! What's happening?" The entire scene, including Unity and Rose, began to get smaller and smaller. Rachel could still see them, smiling and waving, but they were getting farther and farther._

_"Come back soon, Rachel, and we'll talk some more!" yelled Unity as if from a great distance._

_"And don't freak out!" yelled Rose. "You're just waking up...!"_

* * *

**NorAm: Hobbes Tower, New York City**

Slightly dazed, Rachel wandered out of the den, eyes half-closed. "I just had the weirdest dream..." she began. Seeing Byron with John, she quickly forgot what she'd begun to say and scooped him up into a fierce, motherly hug. "And have you been a good boy on your birthday?" she asked.

"Aw, cut it out, Mom!" squealed Byron, embarrassed at being fawned over in front of John. "Not in front of the guys. Geez..." He pouted in a fashion that tugged at his mother's heart because she thought it was so cute, and she put him back down. Luckily, none of the other kids had been witness to the exchange.

"Did you have fun with John today? Did you enjoy your party?" She put her hands on her knees and bent down to talk to Byron face-to-face.

"Yeah, John let us make a big mess and he brought his dog and his dog talks and..." said Byron in a continuous stream of information that made his mother smile.

"Not too big a mess, I hope" she said, looking at John. "I didn't know you were a ventriloquist, John. Aren't you full of surprises." Byron ran into the living room, and she moved to follow.

John smirked. "Yeah, I've got lots of hidden talents, I have," said John, following behind quickly. "Just please don't recommend me for all the other birthday parties." As he walked into the living room, he could see that the children were busying themselves trying to get Barnabas to talk some more for Byron's mom."

"C'mon, Mr. Barnabas, talk some more. Pweeeeeeeeease!" yelled all the children in unison. Barnabas just lay on the floor, resting his head, but looking John's way for help.

"Sorry kids, but Barn only talks when he feels like it. Besides, it's about time for his walk." Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the gaggle of children parted to open a path between Barnabas and the door, and for once, Barnabas scowled with John snickering at his expense.

"Thanks for all the help, John, you're a lifesaver. You can consider the debt paid, but I hope you didn't hate it all that much," said Rachel as she saw him to the door.

"Don't worry, it wasn't. Byron's a good kid, and you've done a good job of raising him. You should be proud," he said. "But I think you should spend some time with him on his birthday no matter how busy you are."

"Don't worry, we're going out to celebrate later, just Byron and me after the party's over," said Rachel. "Will you stop by again sometime? I think Byron has taken a liking to you."

Smiling, John leaned in and kissed Rachel gently on the lips. "I think I will. And don't forget that a birthday's a special day for the mother as much as it is for the child. But if you don't mind, I'll also be dropping by to see you, luv."

Rachel blushed slightly and smiled in a manner that she hadn't since she was a girl of seventeen. "Please do," she said, nearly whispering.

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #7_ -


	8. Poker Night

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #8**

_"Poker Night"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Jericho Vilar

**The Dreaming: Fiddler's Green**

Rachel stepped gingerly up the primrose path before her to Fiddler's Green. Following their initial encounter here several days past, Rachel had soon developed the ability to return at will. She'd visited her two ancestors as often as she could, and it was soon decided that they were more like sisters than grandmothers and granddaughters to each other. It had since become their habit to refer to each other by their first names alone.

"Hello, Unity. Hey, Rose," said Rachel, hugging and kissing them both. "Has anything interesting happened in the Dreaming since I was last here?"

"Nope. It's been boring as hell," said Rose ruefully. "The only thing we have to look forward to are your visits, Rach." Looking about, she was mildly surprised to find the reddest roses growing everywhere. Hearing the singing of birds, she looked up to find that lovebirds had suddenly appeared to sit within Gilbert's many branches.

"Now, Rose, I'm certain that hell is a much more interesting place than you imagine," said Unity, who couldn't help admonishing Rose's constant use of profanities. "Still, I must agree. Very little of interest has happened here of late, and it seems clear that more interesting things have been happening in the waking world."

"What do you mean?" asked Rachel, pretending not to understand what Rose and Unity were talking about. She stretched out her hand, and a small bird swooped down to alight upon her finger, singing a sweet song for her alone. With her other hand, she plucked one of the roses and lifted it to her nostrils, inhaling deeply of its fragrance.

"That's what we're talking about," said Unity, gesturing simultaneously at both the birds and the roses. "The signs are clear."

"Hmm?" queried Rachel, distracted by the natural wonders that seemed to exist only for her at this moment. "What signs? What are you talking about?"

"She's talking about that," said Rose, gesturing at Rachel's blissful ignorance and shaking her head in disgust. "You've got a new man in your life. Damn it, you might even be in love! Please, just tell me it's not John Constantine."

**NorAm: New York City, Warrior's Bar**

"I'll see your ten and raise you another twenty."

The game had been going on for several hours now. Chips were piled in the middle of the table like offerings to the gods, and the five men seated around the table were already eying each other like enemies with their swords drawn. Or perhaps it was more like vultures hovering over a corpse, ready to devour each other? Then again, maybe it was only John who saw things this way.

"Too rich for my blood," said Tim, placing his cards face down in front of him. That wasn't even close to the truth, but Tim didn't want to press any unfair advantages here. As far as he was concerned, this was just an exercise in reading other people, not an opportunity to make more money, which he certainly didn't need.

"It's up to you, then, Guy," said Clark, smiling. Trying to intimidate Guy in a friendly fashion, he was leaning on the table with his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the table.

Guy knew better than to wonder whether Clark was taking a peek at his cards with that x-ray vision of his, but the possibility had kept him on edge the whole game. Examining his own cards yet again, he wondered whether or not he should call what could be Clark's bluff. Three jacks were staring at him, and telepathically, they were telling him to go for it. After a minute spent in consideration, he made his decision. "Call," he said, tossing two more blue chips into the pot. "Goes to you, Hob."

As all eyes turned to him, Hob slumped back in his chair. Unlike the others gathered here, he'd played poker with John Constantine before, and he knew from experience that the situation was not to be taken lightly. After all, at any minute, John could start trying to wager his soul again. "I think I'll fold," he said, placing a pair of eights and a pair of tens face down on the table in front of him. He turned to look at John, expecting to see a smug expression on his face. He wasn't disappointed.

Cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, John just stared Clark in the eyes. Not only were they the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, the intensity of his gaze made John imagine they could burn holes right through him. When they'd started playing, John had pegged Clark as a big boy scout, easy pickings over a poker table, but he'd proved himself an exceptional player, very difficult to read. "Call, mate. What have you got?"

Clark flipped his cards over for observation, revealing two pair, aces over queens. Guy hooted with pleasure, plopping his cards down on the table as well. "Three jacks, boys, read 'em and weep." He was about to reach forward and collect the pot when memory kicked in. The game had been going a particular way all night long. Turning to face John, he didn't even ask, letting the expression on his face ask for him.

"Sorry, mate," said John, revealing his own cards, "but a straight still beats both those hands." Reaching forward, he added this hand's pot to the sizable stack in front of him, his smile growing wider.

"And it was probably an inside straight, too," said Tim, shaking his head ever so slightly in disbelief. "Constantine, you have the damnedest luck."

"Mate, you don't know the half of it."

**Western Eurasia: London, Lord Patterson's Estate**

"Are you certain this is wise?" asked Patterson, comm unit in hand. "It's only been a few months since his incarceration. Blast that trial, anyway. I would have expected someone to have attacked Constantine before now. What in God's name is going on here?"

Harry Constantine just stood there, smirking. His flesh having been repaired by modern technology, he now appeared to be nothing more than a middle-aged man in his forties except for his stark-white hair. Its lifeless quality somehow prevented any dyes from improving its coloring. "If you'd asked my advice, I'd have told you that those in the supernatural community have more important things to worry about than old hatreds right now."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" asked Patterson, frustrated with his supposed ally's reticence. "I know you only tell me half of what you know about what's really going on, and it's beginning to wear on my patience," he said, his eyebrows wrinkling with displeasure. He was, after all, a man long-accustomed to getting his way in all things.

"Never you mind," said Harry as he put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling long and deep. "I only tell you what you need to know to get John Constantine. Nothing more."

Grumbling, Patterson turned away and started pacing and muttering to himself. "Since when did you take up that filthy habit?" he asked, pointing at the cigarette.

"Since I got me lungs back," said Harry, taking another drag. "Know thy enemy. How he lives... how he thinks..." he continued, puffing away. "Actually, this is surprisingly pleasant."

Patterson thought it all nonsense and wondered what could possibly have made his secret benefactor believe that this Harry Constantine could be of any use to him. Indeed, he'd done little to aid him in his quest so far, and he seemed more intent on barking orders than serving anyone else's wishes.

The door opened, and his son, Charles, walked in, carrying what appeared to be an old-style trench coat. "Yet another thing to help you think like Constantine, I take it?" asked Patterson, even less amused.

Harry just smiled.

**NorAm: New York City, Warrior's Bar**

"Damn," said Tim, savoring the taste of the stout in his hand. John's special brew, it was quite good, and he'd have to consider buying the recipe. Something John had picked up from an old friend named Brendan Finn, it was quite good and had quite a kick. "I thought this was just going to be a friendly little poker game. No one told me I'd end up losing Drake Industries," he joked.

They were taking a break in the game to snack, chat, and get to know each other better. Guy Gardner didn't have that many friends in this dark future, and with the loss of Troll, he'd felt a need to have everyone he felt close to meet each other socially. When John suggested a poker game, Guy had thought it a great idea, but that was before he'd started losing his shirt.

"So John, where'd you learn to play poker? Were you a professional dealer once? Or did you just pick it up? Traveling circus, maybe?" asked Guy as he poured John some more of his stout straight from the keg.

John was something of a mystery to Guy, but a good bartender knew better than to ask too many questions. As far as he knew, John didn't even have a job, but Hob Gadling picked up his bar tab. And he made a habit of saying some of the most outrageous things that Guy had ever heard, including the tallest tales and the strangest theories. Naturally, all of the regulars loved him.

John just chuckled. "Who, me? Not hardly," he said, watching his drink settle. "Actually, I've been banned from most casinos, and most bookies who've heard of me know better than to take my wagers. And as for traveling circuses, I try to avoid them when I can. Bearded fat women have a strange habit of taking a fancy to me. Of course, a little 'mooing' will generally get rid of them quickly enough, but that's not really the point, now is it?"

As far as John was concerned, the fact that Clark could see he was no good so quickly was a testament to the fact that he had good instincts, and he wasn't offended in the least. The last thing he wanted was to be in the same room as anyone who approved of him completely. Still, he was determined to get a laugh out of Clark, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

"Alright, Clark, cards on the table. Just what is it about me that you find so distasteful?" asked John, deciding to be blunt and get straight to the point. And Clark, who had probably been born mild-mannered and polite, was made uncomfortable by the directness of John's questioning. Indeed, it reminded him of the interviewing tactics of a certain lady reporter he'd once known and still missed terribly.

The sudden, awkward silence that erupted didn't help matters either. Indeed, all it did was make Clark more aware of the fog surrounding his thoughts, the strange fullness in his lower abdomen, and the mild, throbbing sensation between his temples.

"Ahem. I'm sorry, John, but I'm just not accustomed to such vulgar humor. I was raised a certain way, and I'm not used to seeing men your age behave in such a fashion," said Clark, clearing his throat. It was obvious to everyone at the table that the entire situation was making him very uncomfortable.

John just smiled. "Yeah, that's me," he said, obviously not bothered overmuch by Clark's opinion of him. After all, he'd guessed right. "No respect for anyone or anything and no responsibilities either. No wife, no kids, I guess I've just lived the life of the bachelor too long for me own good. Still, it's hardly easy being the forty-year-old man that never grew up," he finished, the strange statement drawing nods of concurrence from everyone but Tim. By far the youngest man at the table, he had no understanding of what it meant to be forty, let alone what it meant to be forty forever.

This second, awkward silence was broken by Clark, who stood up to make a most unusual statement. Well, it was unusual for him, anyway. "I think I have to go to the bathroom..." he said, with confusion in his voice and on his face, getting up to take care of business.

"What's the matter with Clarkyboy?" asked John, watching him walk away. "You'd think he'd never had to take a piss before or something."

Hob just let the comment pass, making nothing of it, but Tim and Guy looked at each other, not saying anything.

**The Dreaming: Outside of Fiddler's Green**

"Where are we going again?" asked Rachel, who held Rose's hand close, not liking the look of her surroundings. She had yet to venture anywhere in the Dreaming outside of Fiddler's Green, and she felt very vulnerable without Gilbert to protect her. She wished that Unity, at the least, had chosen to accompany them as well, but she'd made it clear that this place to which she was going was no place for her. It was clear that Rose was the more adventuresome of the two.

"I'm taking you to check out this Constantine guy's dreams. We'll leave his nightmares alone. Even I'm not crazy enough to mess around with that place, but a peek at his dreams should be enough to turn you away from him. This guy is bad news," said Rose, who stomped forward with very deliberate steps. It was obvious she knew exactly where she was going. Wherever they were headed, she'd been there before.

"What's the big deal?" asked Rachel, ignoring the fact that she'd first met John while defending him against charges of murder concerning a ritualistic killing. "And how do you know John?"

"Are you kidding? He's infamous here. Hell, he's infamous everywhere!" exclaimed Rose, finally stopping at what appeared to be a seedy bar straight out of the holovids. "Guess he hasn't told you much about himself. Go in. Take a look."

Stepping inside, Rachel was greeted by a sight that was simultaneously very ordinary and very unusual. What was ordinary about it was that it appeared to be on the inside what it looked like on the outside. It was a bar. Waitresses were serving drinks, a few antique television sets were scattered around the room, and patrons were gathered here and there, drinking and discussing this and that. Of course, all of the waitresses were stark naked, but that wasn't what was unusual about the scene. In fact, Rachel had sort of expected to see exactly that. What was unusual was the patrons. Most of them weren't human.

"Excuse me, ladies, but there's a strict dress code here at this establishment. I can't let you in unless you take off your clothes," said one of the waitresses, whose bountiful presence made Rachel feel very self-conscious. Not sure how to respond, Rachel turned to Rose for guidance, only to see that she was already getting undressed.

"Don't worry, no one will even notice," said Rose, stripping off her torn jeans. "But now you know why Unity didn't tag along. Go on and get naked, or have you seen enough?"

Blushing a little, but steeling her nerves, Rachel removed her clothes as well, handing them to the waitress. "No. I'm not going to give up on John yet," said Rachel, very gratified that Rose had been right about no one paying her nudity any notice. "Besides, it's just a dream, right?" she continued, thinking to herself that she'd make John pay for this indignity later.

"You should know better than to say things like that, but you'll learn. I'll be over here having drinks with the fellas. You go mingle and learn what you can," said Rose, moving off to a table where four men were sharing a few bottles of Glenmorangie, seemingly very comfortable with her nudity.

The scene made a curious picture, reminding Rachel of an old painting she'd seen hanging in Hob's penthouse. "Hi Alan, long time no see. Hey, Jamie. Garth. Nice to see you guys are still hanging around. Hi Paul, nice to see you're still keeping in touch. That Dave guy hasn't been creeping around here again, has he?"

Avoiding Rose's table, Rachel made her way to the bar. Seeing a man wearing a trench coat and smoking a cigarette, she mistook him for John. Getting a closer look, she realized that he was someone else. Whoever he was, he looked older and more tired than John, had a very sour expression on his face, and was wearing a felt hat. "Um...hello," she said, suddenly very aware of her body, its nakedness, and its minute flaws.

The strange man turned to look her up and down, his drink in hand and hovering somewhere between the bar top and his lips. "She was a hot little tomato, a real looker, the kind of girl that made you wish you were the marrying type. No pro skirt, I began to wonder what a nice girl like her was doing in a place like this, making nice with a no-good, ugly palooka like me," he said, turning away to focus his attention back on his drink.

"Excuse me?" she asked, not really sure what this strange man was talking about or who he was talking to. It almost seemed like he was talking to himself, or maybe even to some unseen audience.

"Don't mind him," said another voice attached to a strange figure at her feet. "Johnny boy dreamed him up while watching too much telly, he did." Maybe three feet tall, he had an unusual haircut that had been out of style for centuries and an unusually thick moustache. His accent was similar to John's, only thicker. Where had John been raised again? Someplace called Liverpool? The unusual creature appeared to be dressed in a marching band uniform of some kind.

"And who are you?" asked Rachel, eying the strange figure curiously. "What are you?"

"What's wrong? Haven't you ever seen a Liverpootian before?" he asked, taking Rachel's hand and kissing it. "Just call me Ringo, or Sir Ringo if you like."

Rachel didn't want to know what part of John's imagination had dreamed this character up. "Nice to meet you," she said, smiling. "Who's your friend?"

The man in the trench coat and the felt hat only looked at Rachel out of the corner of his eye as he downed another shot of Jim Beam. "She was a pushy dame, but she had a point, maybe even a case. And Clint Flicker, Private Dick, never turned down a case."

Groaning, Rachel just shook her head, wondering how much more bizarre John's dreamscape would become. Hell, maybe Rose and Unity had a point.

"I think I need a drink."

**NorAm: New York City, Warrior's Bar**

"One last hand before we call it a night?" asked Hob, finishing off the last he had of Brendan's finest. "I mean, it's almost dawn, and some of us have businesses to run. At the least, I'm going to have to make back the money I've lost tonight."

"Sure, one last hand," concurred Tim, standing up to stretch out some stiff muscles. It had been a long night, and his joints made audible cracks and clicks as he tried to work several hours of card playing out of his system.

Guy was a bit out of it. He just sat there, holding his head, wondering what the hell was going on. Unlike Clark, Guy had been drunk before, and he remembered what it was like. It had been a long time, but he remembered. Assuming that his Vuldarian physiology would protect him from the effects of the stout that John had brought, Guy had been slamming them down all night like nobody's business. As for why that wasn't the case, who knew? Maybe he was just getting old. "Um...yeah," he said distractedly, rubbing his temples. "One last hand."

Clark, on the other hand, just chalked off the strange buzz between his ears as another side effect of whatever had kept his power level low following his rebirth in the Batcave. "Sounds good to me," he said, wondering what other uncomfortable changes he had to look forward to. "I certainly don't want to lose any more of Tim's money."

"Heh. I'd wish you luck, but that would cut into me profits," said John, picking up the cards and deftly shuffling them for one last deal. "Since this is the last hand, we'll make it short and simple. Five card stud. Nothin' wild."

Quickly passing out the cards, John pretended he was barely paying attention. Clark's eyes watched his movements closely as they had most of the game, and again, he saw nothing amiss. Apparently, John's luck this evening had actually been based on skill or something other than slight of hand.

"Let me tell you guys a joke," said John as he dealt two cards face down to each player, then two cards face up, and one last card face down. Bets were called and raised, and by the time the last card was dealt, over a thousand credits were sitting in the pot.

"A bloke walks into a bar looking all pale and shocked like. The barman asks what's wrong, and the guy says he's just met with God on the road in. Curious, the barman asks what God looked like, and the guy says he looked like a Scottish sheepherder. 'What's so shocking about that?' asks the barkeep, thinking that God's supposed to be a shepherd, and people are supposed to be his flock, right? And the guy answers, 'It's not the shepherd part that bothers me. It's the Scottish part. After all, you know what they say about Scotsmen and sheep."

Tim had a pair of kings showing, which beat everything else on the table, and John wondered how the young mega millionaire would react. "I'll raise you another 200," he said, leveling what he hoped was a cold gaze at John.

"Too rich for even my Vuldarian blood," said Guy, also leveling a cold stare at John, who'd been the big winner all evening. "I fold."

"I'll see your 200 and raise you another 500," said Hob, also turning his gaze John's way.

Shaking his head, John just tapped his fingers against the tabletop. It was everyone else against him, and he knew it. In fact, it was just the way he liked to win. Still, the truth of the matter was that he wasn't there to win. He was there to have fun. "Alright, I fold, too," he said, pushing his cards away. He considered the surprised looks on the faces of Tim, Guy, and Hob well worth whatever amount of money he'd just thrown away.

Clark just looked at John quizzically, also choosing to leave it between Tim and Hob. "I fold, too." Once that was said, a quick scan of John's cards with his x-ray vision revealed that John had four deuces in all. Maybe John wasn't quite as bad a guy as he'd thought.

"Call," said Tim, throwing another 300 credits into the pot. "What have you got?" he asked, his tone one of challenge.

"Read 'em and weep," said Hob, flipping over his cards to reveal a heart flush, king high.

"Not quite good enough," said Tim, revealing his own hidden cards dramatically to reveal a pair of threes and the missing king, a full house.

"Bloody hell," said Hob, stealing John's favorite line when confronted with unpleasant surprises.

"You said it," John concurred, finishing off his cigarette and putting it out. "Well, it's been fun, but I guess we've all got places to be, right? Me, I've got a dog to get back home to. You wouldn't believe how cranky Barnabas can get."

"You should have brought him along," said Guy, who'd grown very fond of Barnabas in the few weeks he'd known him. He well understood the value of the companionship of a good dog. "He's always welcome here, you know."

"Yeah, but Barnabas has this thing about dogs playing poker," replied John, drawing a few last chuckles. "Thinks it's tacky."

"This was fun," said Clark, much to John's surprise. "We should do this again."

"Yeah, and don't forget to bring more of this stout," said Tim, indicating Brendan's finest. "It has quite a kick."

John and Hob both smiled, and Clark and Guy exchanged wary glances. "Yep, that it does," said John, finishing off the last of his own pint. "Even better than Hob's Guinness, and just the thing when I don't want to worry about me high tolerance to all things alcoholic."

"I believe it," said Clark and Guy in unison.

Saying their goodbyes and setting a tentative date for their next poker game, four men made their way home while Guy locked up and went to bed. High atop the building across the street, a mysterious figure, unnoticed by any of them, watched them go.

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower [The Next Morning]**

Rachel always found riding the express Penthouse elevator slightly disconcerting. Part of her subconscious always expected the elevator to shoot past the 200th floor and crash through the roof, ejecting her into space, but it was no more disconcerting than thoughts of John and his weird dreams. The next time she saw him, they were going to have to have a long talk about their relationship, but right now, she was running late for yet another meeting with Hob.

When she was ten floors away from Gadling's penthouse apartment, the gravity generators kicked in as usual, and the elevator settled comfortably to a position of rest. Rachel hopped off as was her wont and exhaled slowly before walking up to her employer and friend's apartment, buzzing the intercom. She waited for a few seconds, but there was no response so she buzzed again.

"Hello? Robert? Are you in there?" she asked, yelling so as to be heard. One thing about Robert Gadling was that he was never late for meetings. It was one of his odd quirks. He always acted like he had all the time in the world and never rushed anywhere, but he never kept anyone else waiting.

Not really sure what might be wrong, she pulled out the spare keycard that Gadling had told her to keep for emergencies and used it to gain entry. After the doors slid open, Rachel walked in quietly. The lights were on, and the sounds of wind and traffic were clearly audible.

"Robert, are you here? Why is the window open?" she asked, tiptoeing down the hallway into the main room, only to discover a most disturbing scene. Signs of a struggle were evident, including some overturned furniture and a shattered picture window. Minute traces of blood were splattered on the Persian rugs amidst pieces of broken glass, but Robert Gadling was nowhere to be found. "Oh my God..."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #8_ -


	9. The Meaning of Life

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #9**

_"The Meaning of Life"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Schuyler Bush**  
**

**NorAm: New York City, the Waldorf Astoria Hotel**

Moans and groans emanated from a mass of twisted sheets and pillows heaped upon the bed. Clothes strewn all about the floor, the place was undeniably a mess. That was pretty much how this particular suite looked every morning, and its resident, John Constantine, was generally considered the bane of housekeeping.

Barnabas watched on as the tenth hour came around. He'd just drawn the curtains, allowing full sunlight to fall directly onto the bed, which served as the impetus for the moans and groans filling the silence. John, as always, struggled to stay asleep, but as always, he finally admitted defeat. Sitting up in bed, he held his head, looking worse than the room did as was his usual wont.

"So how was the poker game?" asked Barnabas, who now made a habit of reminding John about what he'd done the previous night. "I heard you lost the last hand."

"How in blazes did you hear that?" inquired John grumpily, wincing as the sunlight aggravated the slicing pain behind his eyes. Climbing out of bed, he made his way to the bar and poured himself a shot of Glenmorangie, something he'd smuggled out of Hob's private stock for just such emergencies. He felt a thousand times better as soon as the fine, malted scotch glided down his throat.

"I have my sources," said Barnabas, not wanting to divulge that he'd formed a fast friendship with the butler of one of John's poker buddies. Alfred had called to inquire about the status of the game and how soon Masters Clark and Tim could be expected home. They'd gotten to talking and soon discovered that they had much in common.

"Well, don't believe everything you hear," said John, pouring himself some morning coffee. "I let the poor kid win that last hand. Felt sorry for him, I did."

"Poor kid? I thought he was one of the richest men in the world," said Barnabas, a puzzled expression gracing his canine features. "He wasn't wearing that terrible, checkered suit again, was he?" he asked, cocking his head quizzically to one side.

John couldn't quite resist making with a slight chuckle, the cut of that particular suit being something that one didn't forget. "Nah, nothing like that, Barn. Let's just say that those who 'know' don't need tarot cards to do a proper reading. Any cards will do so long as you're the one what's dealing. Anyway, I'm afraid ol' Tim's in for a run of bad luck."

"What kind of bad luck..." began Barnabas, cut off by the suite's com unit. Using the remote, John answered it, triggering the speakerphone function.

"Morning. John here. State your business," he said matter-of-factly, knowing that the hotel staff had been paid very handsomely to screen out unwanted calls.

"John?" asked the woman on the line, the sounds of sobbing and hysteria distorting her voice enough to keep John from recognizing the speaker immediately.

"Rachel? Girl, is that you?" asked John, suddenly wide awake. "What's wrong, luv? What's with all the blubbering?"

"It's Hob! I think he's been kidnapped!"

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

By the time John and Barnabas got to Hob's apartment, the NYPD's Special Crimes Unit was already there, sweeping the place from top to bottom. Seeing John walk in, the eyes of all the junior officers present widened slightly, and they gave him a wide berth.

"Hey, Bradley. Long time no see," said John as he lit up a cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke directly into the detective's face.

"Constantine," said Donvan Bradley, his voice an all-too-familiar grumble. "One of the richest and most reclusive billionaires in my jurisdiction suddenly turns up missing with signs of a violent confrontation. We find your fingerprints all over the place, and when we sweep away the broken glass, we find the letters J and C burned into the carpet. Sound familiar?" he asked, a smile on his face that had the words 'This time, you're ass is mine' written all over it.

John replied with a smile that said 'Better than you have tried' as he locked gazes with Bradley. Neither one backed down until Rachel interrupted their little, staring contest by running to John and hugging him close.

"John, thank God you're here," she said, sobbing into his shoulder. Then, finally noticing the tension between John and Detective Bradley, she backed away. "What... what's going on here?"

Neither wanted to break the silence, but Bradley backed down first, seeing as how it was his duty to name charges. "I'm afraid Mr. Constantine is the prime suspect in Robert Gadling's kidnapping," he said. "Forensics says he was nabbed sometime within the past six hours. Do you have an alibi for that time period, Constantine?"

"Sorry, Bradley. Wish I could help, but I was alone and asleep in bed after a long night of poker," said John, seemingly oblivious to the seriousness of the situation. "But my dog can vouch for me," he finished, smiling in Barnabas' direction and drawing Bradley's eyes to the dog as well. The almost human fashion in which Barnabas was disgustedly shaking his head unnerved him a bit.

"John, this is serious!" admonished Rachel, stabbing her index finger into his chest. "But it's also ridiculous," she continued, turning back to the detective. "John and Hob are friends. He has nothing to gain by a kidnapping because Hob would freely give him anything he wanted. He's the most generous man I know," she finished, her voice breaking as more tears began to flow.

"Yeah... well... we'll be keeping in touch," said Bradley, handing Rachel a handkerchief, slightly discomfited by the sight of a woman crying in his presence. Turning back to his examination of the crime scene, Bradley continued with his exhausting investigation.

Hardly even looking around, John just took one look at the broken window before wrapping his arm around Rachel's shoulder to lead her away from all the activity. "Don't worry, luv. Everything will probably turn out alright in the end."

"Well, that's reassuring," she said, pouting, her eyes red. "Do you really think the police will find him?" she asked.

"Not bloody likely," said John, crushing the butt of his cigarette into the nearest ashtray. "They're trying too hard and overlooking the obvious in the process. Most bobbies do."

"What do you mean?" asked Rachel, turning her head to look over the crime scene yet again. "Do you see something they don't?"

"Just the broken window, luv. Take a gander. What do you see?" asked John, tapping the bottom of his pack of cigarettes to get at another fag.

Rachel readily did as suggested, taking yet another look at what remained of the huge, bay window that graced Hob's living room. She didn't notice anything different at first, seeing only the rather large hole in the middle of it, but then she took note of its shape, which was quite odd.

"You know, if I didn't know better I'd say that hole in the window was shaped like a man with wings..."

**NorAm: New York City, Ellis Island**

The ruins of the Statue of Liberty had been deserted for several months, ever since its destruction at the hands of an enraged Captain Atom. Concerns about lingering radioactivity had caused the police to cordon off the area, but with nothing left to steal or see, no one had bothered to re-open the area to the public. As such, it the perfect location for a covert meeting.

"The package has been received," said a shadowy figure, moving to take the bound, gagged, and unconscious body of Robert Gadling into custody, revealing himself to be Simon Endicott, Lord Patterson's Aide. "I take it his capture presented no difficulties?"

"Even the most resourceful of humans is still only mortal, and as nothing compared to one such as I," replied the winged figure. "Simply see to it that he is delivered to your employer posthaste."

"I shall do so immediately, but first there is another matter to discuss. My employer desires the delivery of another package: the boy," finished Endicott.

In response, the image of the winged figure's body visibly rippled with anger, light shining from him. "Patterson oversteps his bounds!" he rumbled, flames blazing from his eyes. "You do not ask an angel to kidnap children! This one was a friend and ally of the 'Cursed One,' but the boy is innocent. Go back to your 'Lord' and tell him that his request was denied!"

Seemingly unperturbed by the display of anger and power, Endicott pressed the issue. "I am forced to remind you that Lord Patterson serves the same master that you do, and that he has commanded you to aid Lord Patterson in all things that will lead to the downfall of John Constantine," he retorted. "Dare you disobey?"

"No one commands Zimriel!" yelled the winged figure, causing the heavens to thunder and rage. "But a great debt is owed," continued Zimriel, "a debt that even one such as I am obligated to pay. I shall do as your employer asks, but he tries my patience with his presumptuous demands and risks suffering my wrath thereby. As do you," he finished ominously, leaping into the darkening sky.

Invisible to all save those he allowed to make note of his presence, Zimriel soared away majestically, and only after he disappeared from sight did Endicott breathe a sigh of relief. He truly detested these meetings with beings that could instantly reduce him to no more than a pillar of salt. Still, he had little choice.

"At least I won't have to deal with that particular angel after today," he said aloud to no one in particular, a smile of satisfaction slowly creeping onto his face. Pulling out his datapad, Endicott entered the code that would instantaneously transport Robert Gadling across the Atlantic.

"Not after today."

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

As John and Rachel stepped into Hob's private elevator, John could practically feel Bradley's eyes burning holes into the back of his head. As soon as the doors closed, Rachel set the elevator for a slow descent, such that it would take a good half hour to reach her desired floor.

"Something on your mind, luv?" asked John, lighting up yet another cigarette in what seemed to Rachel an endless cycle.

"John... we need to talk," began Rachel, hesitant to bring up such a delicate topic under such awkward circumstances. "I've done a little digging into your background that doesn't involve computers or police records, and I know that you're older than you look... that you've made a lot of enemies... that you've been lying to me and keeping secrets," she concluded, turning around dramatically to give John a penetrating stare. "I understand if you don't want to tell me everything right away, but I do need you to tell me the truth about one thing: Was Hob kidnapped because of you?"

For the briefest of seconds, some sadness creeped its way into John's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Taking one last drag, John broke eye contact to drop the remains of his cigarette to the floor and crush the life out of it with his foot before doing exactly as Rachel asked. He looked her straight in the eyes and told her the truth.

"Don't know for sure, luv, but yeah. I think he was."

Rachel bowed her head and blinked away a few tears, not out of sorrow that she'd guessed right, but out of happiness that John hadn't disappointed her with more dishonesty. Lost in the moment, she hugged him close and laid her head against his chest. "So what do we do now?" she asked, looking up at him and smiling.

"What do you mean, luv? I mean, nothing much to do but wait, right?" asked John, betraying no emotion. "And hope Bradley can take his eyes off yours truly long enough to find the real kidnappers?"

Stunned, Rachel backed away from John ever so slightly. "What... what do you mean? Don't you know who did it? Aren't you going to try and rescue him or something?"

"Rescue?" asked John in the most insufferably callous tone he could muster. "Sorry, luv, but I'm not gonna risk me own neck over anyone, not even Hob. Besides, I've no idea which of me enemies has nicked Hob. Too many to count, really."

"How can you say that?" yelled Rachel, completely outraged. "Your best friend has been kidnapped, and you're not going to do anything? What if they'd kidnapped me? Or Byron...?"

"Sorry, luv, but I'm a Constantine," said John, casually lighting up another fag. "I don't mean to be a callous, ruthless, self-serving wanker. I just am."

And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Winding back her hand, she slapped John hard across the face, knocking the cigarette out of his mouth. She was about to slap him again when John caught her hand and pulled her close, kissing her hard on the mouth.

"You bastard son-of-a-bitch! I hate you!" screamed Rachel, pulling her hand free and slapping John yet again, her wedding band leaving a bloody scar across his cheek.

And before she knew what she was doing, Rachel pushed John against the side of the elevator and kissed him back with equal passion.

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

Hob Gadling awoke to find himself in a cell not much different from the one John had been in just a few months ago, the only light in the cell directed straight at his face, blinding him. Wincing visibly, he let out a soft groan.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize the light would bother you so much," said an unfamiliar voice. "Here, let me redirect it for you. Can I get you anything to make you more comfortable? A glass of water, perhaps?"

Once the light was turned away from his eyes, Hob's sight quickly readjusted, allowing him to see the immaculately dressed young gentleman speaking to him. "Damn, I'm in London, aren't I?"

At that statement, young Charles Patterson blanched visibly. "How... how could you possibly know that you're in London?" he asked, stammering. "You were transported here directly. It shouldn't be possible..."

"Where else would a kidnapper address his prisoner with such nervous gentility and politeness?" said Hob, sarcastically. "Now who the hell are you and what do you want with me?"

"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me. I should have realized you'd be curious about that," he said, finding it difficult to look Hob in the face. Indeed, he was quite embarrassed by the entire situation.

"My name is Charles, and I'm afraid you've been kidnapped. My father intends to use you as bait to draw in your friend, John Constantine," said Charles, fidgeting a bit. "He has something that my father wants, and we're hoping to arrange a trade."

"Trade? Trade me for what?" asked Hob, not liking his predicament or the way this conversation was going one bit.

"Well... I'm afraid I don't know, exactly," said Charles, chuckling nervously. "I'm afraid my father has neglected to share that particular detail with me. Still, he seems fairly confident that we won't have to execute you if that's of any comfort," he finished, not certain what else he should say.

"Are you quite certain you couldn't do with a drink?"

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

Barnabas raised an eyebrow when John and Rachel finally showed up at her apartment, both of them with their clothes and hair in complete disarray. The remnants of a scar were visible on John's cheek, but despite that, he seemed extremely pleased with himself.

Indeed, Rachel seemed unusually happy as well under the circumstances, what with Hob being missing and all. At her bedroom door, they kissed each other passionately and made a show of finally tearing themselves away from each other before the door was closed.

"So do I want to know what that was all about?" asked Barnabas, his curiosity somewhat piqued.

"Probably not," said John, smiling as he stepped into the living room. Byron was watching the holovid with rapt attention, and John plopped himself down on the couch next to him. "So what's on the telly, mate?"

"Hi, Uncle John," said Byron, not looking away from the screen, but still being careful not to spill any cereal on his favorite pajamas, which sported images of Superman, the Flash, and other 'classic' members of the Justice League. "It's some old cartoon they holovized called 'Scooby Doo.' Kinda neat."

"Is that old show still running?" asked John, amazed yet somehow strangely comforted by the fact that some things hadn't changed.

"Yeah, it's supposed to be really, really old," said Byron, munching away. "Did you used to watch it when you were a kid, Uncle John?"

Naturally, this comment drew a snicker from Barnabas and yet another grimace from John, but he let it slide. "Yeah, I used to watch this all the time when I was your age."

"Really?" asked Byron, mentally picturing John as a chain-smoking nine-year old wearing a trench coat and tie.

"Bloody right," answered John, somewhat fond memories creeping through his mind. "Me and me mates had this theory that the show was really about a bunch of kids hopped up on acid. After all, you just don't run into ghosts that often, and for the most part, dogs don't talk. Hell, they even drove to China once."

"Do tell," said Barnabas sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"What's acid?" asked Byron, pretty sure that John didn't mean the sulfuric variety that superheroes always managed to barely avoid getting dropped into.

"It's a slang term for a hallucinogenic commonly used during the late twentieth century," answered Barnabas, giving John a warning glance about mentioning such things in front of Byron, who was still highly impressionable.

"Oh," said Byron, trying to imagine John as a normal kid and failing. "What other cartoons did you use to watch?"

"All kinds of stuff, really," answered John, desperately craving a cigarette but not wanting to smoke in front of the boy. "Didn't matter if it was good or not. If it was on the telly, I watched it. 'George of the Jungle.' 'Rocky & Bullwinkle.' It was all good fun."

Byron laughed. "I've seen those, too. My favorite is 'Speed Racer,' I think," said Byron, pleased by the fact that John and he had something in common. "Uncle Hob holovizes all those old shows on his network."

"He does, does he?" asked John, a few lines of guilt and sadness crossing his features.

"Yeah, isn't it great?" said Byron, not really expecting an answer. "Uncle Hob does lots of weird old stuff that probably no one else cares about. He's neat that way."

"Yeah, Hob's a good mate. A great guy..."

**The Dreaming: The HellBlazer**

Rachel was making her second trip to the HellBlazer, the pub that served as John Constantine's personal corner of the Dreaming. Silently, she admonished herself for having expected too much of him. After all, even if Hob had been kidnapped by John's enemies, that wasn't his fault, and expecting him to intervene was just plain unreasonable.

John was anything but superhuman, and anyone capable of kidnapping someone as important as Robert Gadling under the noses of both the NYPD and the Justice League was probably very dangerous. Still, even if John couldn't do anything, that didn't mean she couldn't.

Having found the pub, Rachel quickly stepped in, removed her clothes, and made her way directly to the bar. Having found her man, Rachel got straight to the point: "A friend of mine's been kidnapped, and I want him back. You're a detective, right? Well, I want to hire you for the job. Name your price."

Staring off into space, slowly and methodically drinking his scotch, Clint Flicker, Private Dick didn't even bat an eye, responding with only a few, simple words:

"She was a pushy dame, but she had a case..."

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

The night was still and quiet as the angel known as Zimriel swept down on the apartment that held his unsuspecting prey. A child, he thought to himself. A true innocent. He reminded himself that he was above and beyond such paltry things as concern over a single mortal's fate, that mortals were meant to fear such as he.

Even so, he willed himself to simply pass through the window instead of crashing through it. There was no need to make a dramatic entrance as there was nothing to be gained by instilling fear in the child. After all, the enemy would know to tie the second kidnapping to the first. Indeed, such rationalizations are common even amongst his kind. Angels may not lie to others, but sometimes... sometimes... even angels will lie to themselves.

Invisible to mortal eyes, the angel stood there, watching his prey as he laughed at antics perpetrated by fictional characters that were real only to him. Extending his presence, Zimriel willed the child and other mortals in the area into an unnatural sleep, thinking it better to steal Byron away like a thief in the night. He was just about to be done with this unpleasant task when he was distracted by something completely unexpected, the sound of a dog barking.

"Bollocks! That's enough out of you, bird boy. One more move, and I blow you to kingdom come," warned John, leveling his gun at the heavenly intruder.

"What? Who?" asked Zimriel, truly surprised for what was, perhaps, the very first time in his eternal existence. Seeing the hated enemy, his eyes widened in a combination of shock and outrage.

"Don't you know?" asked John, giving the angel a rueful glare. "I'm Dick Dastardly..."

"...and I'm Muttley," continued Barnabas.

"And we're here to stop one pigeon!" they finished in unison as John fired a blast of divine retribution into Zimriel's chest, leaving a smoking crater where his heart had once been.

Collapsing onto the floor, Zimriel struggled to raise his head and look the enemy in the eye, vainly trying to rise back up. "How...?"

Lighting up a fag, John casually took a drag as he approached the fallen Zimriel, stepping onto what was left of his neck. "Angels... demons... you're all the same. Bastards!" he yelled, spitting on Zimriel's face. "Any last words?" asked John, cocking back the hammer of his six gun for one more shot, this one aimed at Zimriel's head.

"Damn you, Constantine. Damn you, but don't think you've won! My Lord will avenge me! He'll get you! He'll get you...!"

John cut short Zimriel's tirade by pulling the trigger, obliterating Zimriel's head and instantaneously reducing the rest of his angelic body to dust.

"And my little dog, too, right?" asked John, obviously pleased with his handiwork this night, making a show of blowing the residual smoke from the barrel of his weapon and putting it away.

"Don't give anyone any ideas," said Barnabas, shuddering. "You never know who might be listening. Anyway, will Byron be okay?" he asked in a worried tone.

"Yeah, the kid'll be okay," answered John, looking over at Byron protectively. "Now that the angel's been dusted, his power over Byron should fade, more like as not by dawn. Anyway, I've a good idea who's gone and nicked Hob, now."

"Really?" asked Barnabas, perking up his ears and raising an eyebrow. "Well, then... what happens next. Will you rescue him yourself or let the police handle it?"

"Don't have much choice now, do I?" asked John, thoroughly pissed. "That's what the blighters want, Barn. They want me to go after Hob and walk right into whatever trap they've set."

"Then don't go," said Barnabas, his usual, cynical manner noticeably absent. "Let someone else handle it, or maybe ask Guy for help."

"Can't do that, Barn. If I don't go, then they'll just come after Byron again, and maybe next time, we won't be so lucky. And even Guy doesn't stand much of a chance against an angel, not without the right tricks up his sleeve," said John, resigning himself to what he would have to do next.

Dropping the remains of his cigarette into Zimriel's ashes, John wondered how he was going to explain the mess to Rachel. He also wondered how angry she was going to be when he told her that he was off to London, once again raising a hand to his cheek. "Bloody hell."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #9_ -


	10. Reckonings

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #10**

_"Reckonings"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Tommy Hancock

DEAR ALFRED,

WHERE SHALL I BEGIN? THE PAST FEW DAYS HAVE BEEN VERY EXCITING, VERY EXCITING INDEED. YOU'VE NO DOUBT HEARD ABOUT THE KIDNAPPING OF ROBERT GADLING THROUGH THE VARIOUS NEWS SERVICES. PERHAPS IT'S ONLY A MINOR POINT OF INTEREST IN GOTHAM CITY, BUT HERE IN NEW YORK, MANY HAVE BEEN SHAKEN, MOST ESPECIALLY THE HOUSEHOLD OF RACHEL WALKER. FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, ROBERT IS RACHEL'S GODFATHER, AND SHE BECAME QUITE DISTRAUGHT AS A RESULT OF HIS ABDUCTION. FROM WHAT I UNDERSTAND, JOHN'S CALLOUS ATTITUDE TOWARDS THE SITUATION DIDN'T HELP, BUT HIS SUDDEN DEPARTURE FOR LONDON MADE A BAD SITUATION EVEN WORSE. MOST REGRETTABLY, MY OWN EFFORTS TO COMFORT HER ONLY SERVED TO EXACERBATE MATTERS FURTHER...

* * *

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

"The nerve of the man," muttered Rachel as she paced the length and breadth of her apartment, still furious over John's sudden departure. "The same day we finally get into each other's pants, he just takes off without even a word!"

Barnabas watched as she curled her hand into a fist, crumpling up the note that John had left behind. Written on it was a hasty explanation to the effect that he had urgent business in London and didn't know when he'd be back, not truly explaining anything. Indeed, Barnabas could well understand Rachel's frustration.

"I can't believe I misjudged him so badly," continued Rachel, being somewhat overly harsh with herself. "Rose tried to warn me about him, but did I listen? No. No! How could I have been such an idiot!" she cried, collapsing onto the couch, burying her face in her hands.

Barnabas watched uncomfortably as Rachel began to sob. Her anger spent, the tears were finally starting to flow uncontrollably. Not one to stand idly by while another suffered, he jumped onto the couch beside her. Extending a paw, he brushed a few, stray locks of hair away from her face and wiped away some tears.

Stunned by this almost human gesture of compassion, Rachel was even more startled by the intelligence that she could see in Barnabas' eyes. Indeed, she could almost believe her son's fanciful stories about the dog being able to talk.

"You don't have to punish yourself like this," said Barnabas as Rachel's eyes widened in shock. "John left for London to try and find Hob and deal with his kidnappers. Have faith in him. He's trying to do what he thinks is right."

Her mouth agape, Rachel stared at Barnabas quite dumbfounded for several moments. After the shock registered fully, she responded in the only logical manner available. She screamed very loudly, achieving an unusually high pitch, even for a woman.

"Eeeyaaaghhh!"

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

Lord Patterson sat at his desk, idly tapping his fingers upon its surface. By all accounts, John Constantine had taken the bait and was already on his way to London. Agents had already been placed at the airports and docks to insure that his arrival would not go unnoticed. Even so, Charles Patterson IV was not one to leave things to chance.

"How can you sit there so insufferably calm?" queried Patterson, eying the figure of Harry Constantine with some irritation. "Constantine may no longer be in New York, but that's no guarantee that he's truly on his way here to rescue Gadling. For all we know, he's fled elsewhere to disappear yet again!" he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the desk for emphasis.

In response to the tirade, Harry didn't even bat an eye. He just leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on Patterson's desk. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he popped one in his mouth and lit it in a manner reminiscent of John Constantine, not that Patterson noticed. After all, he had never had an opportunity to meet his enemy in person.

"Know thy enemy," said Harry, actively trying to be as insufferably calm as possible. "It's one of the basic rules of conquest, one that no one knew better than old Ollie," he continued, once again referring to the time he spent with Cromwell. "Now there was a leader of men..."

"Oh, do shut up!" retorted Patterson, resuming his seat and grunting with disgust. Following Harry's reanimation, he'd quickly discovered that nothing irritated him more that being compared to one of the most notorious butchers in all of British history and found wanting. "If you have reason to know why Constantine would head our way, then out with it!"

"Oh, he's on his way," said Harry, scattering ashes from his cigarette all over the floor. "Chances were slim with only Gadling in our clutches, but now that we've made a move against the boy, my descendant is bound to arrive, no question. He won't stand idly by while the child is threatened."

"But what does a mere boy matter to Constantine?" asked Patterson, unable to believe that his infamous quarry would be prey to such a simple weakness. "The most ruthless man in history undone by concern for a child not even his own?"

Harry was hardly surprised by Patterson's confusion. After all, how could a man who cared nothing for his own son be expected to comprehend such behavior in any other, let alone John Constantine.

"Let's just say that this most hated man that you fear so much won't have another Newcastle on his hands," said Harry, smiling a smile of absolute confidence.

* * *

MISS WALKER IS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO HEARING ME EXPRESS MYSELF CLEARLY. SHE'S KNOWN ME TO BE A RESERVED INDIVIDUAL WHO TENDS TO KEEP TO HIMSELF. AFTER I CALMED HER DOWN, I EXPLAINED A NUMBER OF MATTERS HOPING TO ALLAY HER CONCERNS, BUT TO NO AVAIL. ULTIMATELY, SHE MADE THE SAME MISTAKE THAT TOO MANY HUMANS... I MEAN PEOPLE... MAKE WHEN FEELING FRUSTRATED, LONELY, AND UNFULFILLED. IN OTHER WORDS, SHE ATTEMPTED TO DEAL WITH HER PROBLEMS BY BEHAVING LIKE JOHN.

* * *

**The Dreaming: The HellBlazer**

Rachel sat at the bar glumly, furiously downing shot after shot of the worst rotgut available. Her world had been turned almost completely upside down, and she somehow came to believe that things would be set right if she made herself feel even worse. Luckily for her, she was only dreaming.

"What's the matter, luv?" asked Sir Ringo, hopping up onto the bar stool beside her. "Having a spat with your lover? World not treating you right? Why not tell us all about it."

Not even batting an eye, Rachel just stared hard at the empty shot glass in her hands. "You tell me," she began, something of an edge to her voice. "A few days ago, I was leading a perfectly normal life, except for this Dreaming business. Now, I find out that my boyfriend is over a hundred years old and has a dog that can talk."

"Things all topsy-turvy?" asked Sir Ringo. "Well, I'm sure things will look less bleak in the morning."

Rachel ignored the well-meaning but useless advice, continuing on with her rant. "I slept with him, Ringo, in an elevator of all places! I thought I knew him, but it turns out I don't know anything! Not really... how could I have been so damned stupid?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, luv," said Sir Ringo, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "John just has that effect on women. You're not the first to come in here ready to kill him, and you won't be the last, I'll wager."

"Wha... what do you mean?" asked Rachel, somewhat taken aback. "Other women have been in this pub complaining about John?"

"Heavens, yes!" exclaimed Sir Ringo, chuckling merrily. "So many that I've quite lost track. Kit, Kathy, Eve... so many names. It's difficult to remember all of them. Why don't you come along and pay a visit to the gallery?"

"Gallery?" asked Rachel, moving to follow Sir Ringo. He led her to a side door of the pub that she'd somehow never noticed before; stepping through behind him, she found herself in a corridor lined with portraits of beautiful women, most of them naked like herself.

One of the exceptions was the portrait of a woman wearing fishnet stockings and a top hat labeled Zatanna. Another was of a young woman in schoolgirl's clothing labeled Mercury. Otherwise, it was just what Sir Ringo had led her to believe, a gallery of nude portraits of the many, many women that John had known intimately during his lifetime.

Rachel could hardly believe her own eyes, and the curious sensation she felt was curiously akin to drowning. Lost in the sea of John's past sexual conquests, she began to wonder whether she'd ever really meant anything to him at all.

"How fab!" exclaimed Sir Ringo, mildly surprised. "Here's yours, luv, right here between Kit and Kathy and across from the shrine to Astra. Most impressive, that is. John must be particularly fond of you."

"What makes you say that?" asked Rachel, wanting very much to grab hold of any excuse not to feel as forlorn as she now did. "Who are Kit and Kathy? Who or what is Astra?"

"Who are Kit and Kathy? Both those stories are too long to tell, luv," said Sir Ringo, who'd spent far too much time drinking with both of them for his own liking. "But if you really want to know more about Astra, all you need do is have a look behind you."

That said, Sir Ringo made his way back to the pub, his bar stool evidently calling to him. Turning around, Rachel saw yet another thing she hadn't noticed before, black velvet curtains separating the main gallery from another room. Making her way through them, she walked into a dark room lit by a solitary lamp.

Hardly a shrine, there was nothing else in the room except some antiquated machinery that Rachel didn't even recognize at first glance. Eventually, she identified the larger object as a television and the smaller object on top of it as a VCR. A tape-based media storage device in the VCR was labeled 'Newcastle.'

Rachel pressed the 'play' button, and the screen flickered to life, starting to play a music video of some sort titled 'Astra.' The opening shot was that of a little girl sitting on a chair alone in a dark and empty house. As she sang, the images on the screen began to flow and change.

_When I was just a little girl_  
_I asked my mother, what will I be_  
_Will I be pretty, will I be rich_  
_Here's what she said to me._

_Que Sera, Sera,_  
_Whatever will be, will be_  
_The future's not ours, to see_  
_Que Sera, Sera_  
_What will be, will be._

The words were strangely haunting, and the little girl's voice was more haunting still. The combination of innocence and hopelessness evident in the tone of her voice was rapidly bringing tears to Rachel's eyes. A song originally made famous by Doris Day, Rachel recognized that the song was never intended to evoke such heartache, a fact that only served to make things worse.

On the screen, the little girl ran in terror from something dark and malevolent, perhaps her father, into the arms of a man that Rachel recognized to be a much younger version of John. Apparently, the girl thought of John as her protector, a sentiment that he shared willingly. Unlike the sound, the image was very sweet indeed.

_When I was young, I fell in love_  
_I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead_  
_Will we have rainbows, day after day_  
_Here's what my sweetheart said._

_Que Sera, Sera,_  
_Whatever will be, will be_  
_The future's not ours, to see_  
_Que Sera, Sera_  
_What will be, will be._

She watched as John reassured the little girl and began scribing symbols onto the floor, lighting candles and looking as cocky and arrogant as Rachel had ever seen him. He had friends with him, friends who seemed to trust that John knew what he was doing. Gestures were made, words were spoken, and suddenly, a demon appeared.

With the brazen hauteur of a king, John attempted to command the demon and failed. He spoke the demon's name, and the demon just laughed in his face. The laughter began to echo, and the sound of it merged flawlessly with the rhythm and beat of the song being sung.

_Now I have children of my own_  
_They ask their mother, what will I be_  
_Will I be handsome, will I be rich_  
_I tell them tenderly._

_Que Sera, Sera,_  
_Whatever will be, will be_  
_The future's not ours, to see_  
_Que Sera, Sera_  
_What will be, will be._

Rachel understood even before the song reached its conclusion that this little girl had no future and would never have children of her own. John's trusting friends soon lay dead, lying in pools of their own blood, and the little girl was swallowed almost whole by the demon that he'd summoned. Lost and alone, only John was spared.

He knelt by the empty chair in the in the dark and empty house, surrounded by the dead bodies of his friends. In his arms, he held the little girl's severed arm and clutched it tightly to his chest, wailing silently into the night. And with that, the song ended, the image fading to black.

Horrified, Rachel was surprised to find herself kneeling on the floor as John had been on the screen, crying silent tears. Holding a closed fist over her heart, she also berated herself for having judged John so harshly for not revealing more about his past.

There were many things she wasn't yet ready to know.

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

Unaccustomed to the role of jailer, young Charles Patterson V sat nervously in his chair, trying very hard not to fidget. He looked extremely uncomfortable, to the point where even Hob felt bad for him, to the point where he found himself trying to strike up idle conversation.

"What's wrong, lad? Why so glum? After all, I'm the prisoner here, not you," said Hob, making a halfhearted attempt at being cheerful.

"It's terribly awkward," said Charles, his spirits somewhat lifted. "Not to mention improper. Kidnapping wealthy philanthropists just isn't the done thing, you know. It's all just so... so... American," he finished with distaste.

"Forgive me if I can't sympathize," said Hob, stifling a chuckle. Indeed, he was secretly pleased to see that some things hadn't changed. "If you don't mind my asking, what makes you believe kidnapping me will help you capture John?"

"Truly, I wish I knew," said Charles, shrugging his shoulders, "but they don't really tell me anything. I'm just supposed to accept that it will. Personally, I'm not even certain that he really exists."

"What makes you say that?" asked Hob, even more amused. Living in New York City, he rarely had the opportunity to appreciate such simpleminded skepticism, and he found himself enjoying it.

"As a child, I was raised on stories about John Constantine," said Charles, eyes downcast as if he were embarrassed to speak of it. "You know, fairy stories about demons and magic, spirits and curses. I never really believed them, and most of them were quite fanciful."

His curiosity piqued, Hob attempted to probe further. "How about an example? It would help pass the time, and there's not much else to do."

"Well, alright then," said Charles, somewhat sheepishly. "I'll tell you since you ask, but keep in mind that it's a story I first heard as a nine-year-old about a genie who grants three young boys a wish each. One of these boys is John Constantine."

Hob, who had heard few stories if any about John's childhood, did not interrupt. Indeed, he was eager to hear this tale.

"The first boy wishes for wealth. He gets it, but he's killed by a thief who steals that wealth from him," began Charles, warming up to his story. "The second boy wishes for power. He's granted power, but he ends up getting killed by someone who fears him because of it."

Having heard other versions of this same tale before, Hob was somewhat disappointed by the lack of originality. Even so, he couldn't help wondering how this version would end, considering that John was involved.

"Finally, it was John Constantine's turn to wish," said Charles, unconsciously steepling his fingers as was his father's habit when telling stories. "He sees that the two other boys ended up dead so he thinks long and hard about what to wish for. He knows that it would be better not to, but he just can't resist the lure of the wish."

"What happened?" asked Hob, intrigued. "What did he wish for?"

Charles hesitated before continuing, trying to divine the story's significance, as his father had always demanded when he was told the story as a child. "In the end, John wished for knowledge, to know the rules that the genie lived by, the rules by which wishes were granted."

"That's it?" asked Hob, somewhat incredulous. "Isn't there more?"

"No," said Charles, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm afraid not. My father made me analyze the story quite thoroughly, though. As a boy, I thought it was just an anecdote about how John Constantine viewed the practice of magic. You know, something that would make his wishes come true. Later, I came up with a somewhat more complex theory."

"Which was?" prompted Hob, trying to get a bead on the extent of Charles' deductive and analytical skills.

"Well, instead of focusing on what he wished for, I tried focusing on why he wished for it and came up with two reasons," said Charles, turning his head to look Hob squarely in the eyes. "I think he gambled that wishing for knowledge wouldn't leave him dead as wishing for wealth or power or any other worldly gain would."

"That's just one reason," pressed Hob, narrowing his eyes. "What's the other."

Charles responded, his tone cold, possibly from fear and possibly from awe. "I think John purposely wished for something that he could take with him even if he died. Like certain theologians have argued, your education is the only thing you take with you."

Impressed despite himself, Hob smiled at Charles, even though he knew of a fair certainty that the story was false regardless of the fact that the analysis somehow rang true. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I think that's a tall tale. Even so, I thoroughly enjoyed the telling."

Smiling back, Charles blushed, as he was unaccustomed to praise, especially from a natural father figure like Hob. "Like I said, they're just fairy stories. When I grew older, I was told even more fanciful versions of the same story, versions where instead of a genie granting three wishes, a soul is being sold to three demons, Constantine's own soul no less."

Charles began to chuckle softly, but Hob was strangely silent.

* * *

BYRON TOOK JOHN'S DISAPPEARING ACT NO BETTER THAN RACHEL. THE POOR BOY HAS HAD ONLY TWO FATHER FIGURES IN HIS LIFE, AND BOTH OF THEM ARE NOW MISSING. FROM PERSONAL EXPERIENCE, I KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE ABANDONED, AND I FIND MYSELF WORRYING ABOUT HIM. AN EXCEPTIONAL BOY, HE IDOLIZES JOHN FAR TOO MUCH FOR HIS OWN GOOD...

* * *

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

Alone in his room, Byron Walker sat at the head of his bed, hugging his knees to his chest, head bowed. Feeling lost and alone, he reached for the toy soldier from the birthday present that John had given him, holding it in his hands, looking for comfort.

"Well, John's gone," said Byron to the toy soldier, his eyes red from the flow of tears. "Uncle Hob's been kidnapped, and John's gone off to try and rescue him. He didn't even say goodbye, and I might never see Uncle John or Uncle Hob ever again."

Naturally, the toy soldier said and did nothing.

"Yeah, I know," said Byron, sounding unconvinced. "He probably just didn't want to worry me. Still, he should have said something before he left. Mom's real upset, and Barnabas seems real worried. It's just not right."

The toy soldier's lifeless eyes betrayed no emotion, and naturally, made no response.

"What's that?" asked Byron, tilting his head curiously. "Yeah, maybe I'm a little upset, too. I mean, I believed in him. I trusted him to stay, and now he's gone. Just like Hob. Just like all the others."

Again, the toy soldier said nothing. It was only a toy, and toys didn't talk. Still, Byron had somehow hoped that it would. After all, dogs weren't supposed to talk either. Bowing his head yet again, Byron completed his train of thought in a much more subdued tone of voice.

"Just like dad."

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

The awkward silence that had risen up between them was quite unbearable. Charles could hardly stand it, but luckily for him, it was soon broken by the sudden appearance of his father and Harry Constantine.

"I trust that my son has seen adequately to your needs and comfort," said Patterson, walking into the prison facility of his secret headquarters. "We wouldn't want to extend anything less than the utmost courtesy to the great Hob Gadling."

Not impressed and somewhat annoyed, Hob just shook his head disgustedly. Naturally, he recognized the UN representative for Western Europe that he'd voted against. Grimacing with distaste, he turned his attention to the other visitor, finding him strangely familiar. "Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

"What? You don't remember?" asked Harry, feigning shock and disappointment. "It's been a few hundred years, but still, I find myself just a tad bit offended." The words drew surprised looks from both Charles and Hob.

"A few hundred years?" asked Charles in disbelief. "Just what are you talking about Mr. Constantine?"

"Constantine..." muttered Hob, struggling to put a name to the man's face. Eventually, recognition struck him. "Harry. Harry Constantine. Cromwell's whipping boy."

"You do remember!" exclaimed Harry, feigning pleasure. "Been meaning to ring you for over a century, but being mostly dead and buried got in the way."

"How terrible for you," said Hob, gritting his teeth. "So you've gone from licking Cromwell's boots to kissing Patterson's huge arse? Quite a step down, don't you think?"

Offended, Patterson's eyebrows bristled whereas Charles found himself struggling to stifle more chuckling. Harry, on the other hand, took the insult in stride.

"Like I've been saying all this time, he's no Cromwell, but a dead man six feet under can't pick and choose who's going to dig him up. I owe the bastard, and there just isn't room for more than one Constantine in this world," said Harry, taking a drag on his cigarette. The gesture reminded Hob of John.

Ignoring Harry's insult, Patterson just turned him another baleful glare before forcing his attention back on Hob. "Imagine my surprise when I was told that the great philanthropist, Hob Gadling, was nearly one thousand years young, immortal for all intents and purposes. That's quite a trick. I don't suppose you'd be willing to share it with me?"

"What? The secret of eternal youth? The secret of immortality?" asked Hob, rhetorically. "Don't grow old. Don't die. Simple."

Not amused, Patterson was visibly losing what passed for patience with him. "Need I elaborate on the precariousness of your situation?" he asked, his hands folded behind his back. "You are my prisoner. Normally, it would be impossible to release you, but under the circumstances..."

"If you let me go and I talk about the kidnapping, you'll go public about my immortality," said Hob, not surprised. "I won't want that to happen so there's no reason not to let me go if I make it worth your while."

"So you do understand," said Patterson, looking smug. "Are we agreed?"

"Fair enough," said Hob, trying to be amicable. "Don't grow old. Don't die. Plain and simple."

"Is that how Constantine's remained alive for so long?" asked Patterson with more than a little irritation. His distrustful nature made it impossible for him to take Hob at his word.

"No, that's something completely different," said Hob, who knew with a certainty that Patterson would never believe any answer he gave, much less the truth. "Constantines are an unusual lot. I've known more than a few in my lifetime, and I've never known whether to fear them or pity them, immortal or no."

"It happens to us all," said Harry, reciting words he'd spoken to a much younger John Constantine over a century ago. "We get a sniff of sorcery and oh! What plans we make! We'll shake creation and leave nothing but smiles and wit and a reputation all men envy!" Harry even went so far as to imitate the hissing rasp that had been his voice prior to his regeneration.

"Yes, it would seem that every generation of Constantines since Kon-sten-tyn, the first Constantine, has suffered from the same curse," said Charles, thinking out loud. "Perhaps Merlin imposed the curse upon Kon-sten-tyn's heirs as vengeance for his betrayal. Perhaps the Constantines are the rightful heirs to the throne of England and are made to suffer for the sins of the crown that they do not wear."

"If that's true, then it pisses me off that John has to suffer for the sins of shit-eating bastards like you!" exclaimed Hob vehemently, directing the scathing remark at Patterson.

"Same here," said John Constantine from the far corner of the room, drawing stunned glances from everyone present.

* * *

ON THE OTHER HAND, I FIND MYSELF STRANGELY UNCONCERNED ABOUT JOHN. I REALIZE I'VE DESCRIBED HIM TO YOU AS LITTLE MORE THAN A DRUNKEN, CHAIN-SMOKING MISANTHROPE WHO'S PRONE TO TAKING ABSURD RISKS JUST TO IMPRESS WOMEN, BUT HE'S ACTUALLY VERY INTELLIGENT. I'M ACTUALLY CONFIDENT THAT HE WILL RETURN TRIUMPHANTLY WITH ROBERT GADLING AT HIS SIDE.

* * *

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

As soon as his presence was made known, security forces appeared out of nowhere led by Simon Endicott, Lord Patterson's ever-present aide. In short order, John Constantine's arms and legs were secured, and he was being beaten savagely about the head and face with the butt end of plasma rifles.

In a matter of minutes, all of John's ribs were cracked or broken, as were most of the other bones in his body. Both of his eyes were badly bruised and swollen, and his kneecaps were completely shattered. Bleeding from several orifices, John was on the verge of losing consciousness when Patterson finally intervened.

"Enough," said Patterson, observing the efficiency of his personal security forces with grim pleasure. "I want him completely incapacitated and severely injured, but not dead and not unconscious. Place him in the cell next to Gadling's."

None too gently, the three men dragged John's broken body into the waiting cell, leaving a trail of his own blood in his wake. John collapsed onto the floor, apparently unable to move, and the cell's force field was quickly activated.

"Was all that really necessary?" asked Hob, seemingly unmoved by the violent display.

"I am impressed by your detachment and apparent lack of concern," said Patterson, who kept his distance. "I was under the impression that you two were mates."

"We are," said Hob, who struggled to ignore John's moaning, groaning, and suffering. "Still, I've seen worse beatings."

"No doubt," said Patterson, looking smugly satisfied. "And you obviously know better than to grant me the advantage of knowing that this bothers you. Well played, Mr. Gadling, well played."

"Save your praises," replied Hob, his response revealing more about his true feelings than he wished. "Your time might be better spent looking after your son."

At the other end of the room, looking as pale as Hob remembered Death and the rest of the Endless to be, Charles was leaning against the wall, struggling to hold down his breakfast. To his credit, he hadn't lost control of his bodily functions, but it looked as if that were still a possibility.

"Oh, buck up, Charles! Be a man! You're a Patterson, and it's long past time you started acting like one!" exclaimed Patterson, checking his watch. "Besides which, you're about to be witness to a most auspicious occasion."

"Exp... ecting... someone you... wanker?" asked John, his words slurred and forced, blood spittling forth from his mouth.

"He speaks!" exclaimed Patterson, extraordinarily pleased with himself. "Excellent! Your moment of destiny awaits. My orders were to beat you into submission, ensure that you were helpless, but leave you conscious and able to speak. You have my gratitude for allowing me to keep my word."

"Go... fuck... yourself!" spat out John, struggling to get up onto his knees and failing. "Takes more than a... piece o' shite like you... to break me..."

"And so it has," said Patterson, who suddenly seemed nervous with expectation.

"Should have known you weren't the real brains behind this operation," said Hob, trying to draw attention away from John. "Mind telling me who is?"

"Would that I could, Mr. Gadling, but my Lord requires that his identity remain secure," said Patterson, nodding his head toward his aide, indicating that it was time. "I consider you very much my peer, and granting you such knowledge would necessitate your demise. Believe it or not, I prefer that you continue to live."

At Patterson's side, Endicott pressed a button on his handheld remote, sending a current of electricity through the metal floor of Hob's cell, forcing him into unconsciousness. To absolutely insure privacy, the force fields enclosing him darkened to opaque, and white noise generators kicked in to insure that he did not reawaken.

Mere moments later, three angelic beings suddenly appeared in the room. In point of fact, they were angels, each exquisitely beautiful, surrounded by an aura of divine power. Overcome by their powerful presence, Charles fell to his knees, and Harry backed away quickly with Endicott close at hand. Patterson, on the other hand, genuflected before the triumvirate in a stately fashion, bowing his head reverently.

Once it was determined that all was as it should be, the three angels parted, revealing the presence of a fourth figure who'd been standing behind them. Dressed in a Keravin suit whose cut betrayed an antiquated sense of style and tradition, his hair was blonde-gold, his eyes the clearest blue. Apparently only human, he was still flawlessly handsome, but impossibly, he seemed to stand taller than the angels in his entourage.

Stepping forward, he extended his right hand and allowed Patterson to kiss it as a demonstration of his fealty. His gaze he directed towards John Constantine who stared back through bruised and bloodshot eyes.

For his part, John found it difficult to focus, but eventually, his vision cleared. His eyes widened almost instantly with recognition, and perhaps even fear. He hadn't faced this particular enemy in over a century, and he'd looked very different during their last encounter.

"The years have... been... good to you," croaked John, gritting his teeth to keep the pain at bay.

"More so, perhaps, than to you," said the fourth figure. "But my time is limited. I will not waste it exchanging pleasantries or dealing with you any longer than necessary."

Folding his hands behind his back, in a fashion that Patterson was obviously in the habit of imitating, the fourth figure began pacing the room. "Do you know what goes on, Constantine? God has abandoned the Silver City, and war rages between Heaven and Hell. At any moment, either side could win or lose, and the fate of all reality hangs in the balance." Standing tall, the fourth figure looked down on John as if from on high.

"My involvement could shift that balance, but only if I am restored to my former glory, the fullness of my power! And only you, John Constantine, stand in my way! If you care anything for this world or your own miserable existence, then you will stand against me no more. Return to me what is rightfully mine!"

His voice rising to a deafening volume, his ire elevating to a state where even the angels were frightened, the fourth figure thrust a grasping and accusing hand towards John's cell.

"I am the archangel Gabriel, whose fall you orchestrated, and I want my heart back!"

**The Dreaming: The HellBlazer**

Rachel Walker sat at what had become her customary barstool, resting her head on its cool wooden surface. Not only was she feeling both miserable and guilty, she had a hangover that just wouldn't go away. She tried to drive the pain away by digging the heels of her palms into her eyes, failing miserably. Fortunately, an unexpected surprise would soon draw her out of her misery.

"The Butter and Egg man was big time with gunsels all over the place, but a good dick doesn't queer on a job just because he might get bumped off," said Clint Flicker, taking a seat next to his client.

A few seconds later, everyone in the bar yelled "Hob!" in unison as if welcoming back an old friend who'd been absent far too long. Raising her head, hardly daring to believe or hope, Rachel saw Hob Gadling standing in the doorway, alive and well and looking slightly embarrassed.

Rushing up to him, she wrapped him in a fierce hug as tears of happiness flowed down her face. Hob returned the embrace, but awkwardly, and it was only then that Rachel remembered that she was naked. Her face reddening, Rachel pulled away and attempted to cover herself with her hands as Hob quickly turned around.

"I'm glad to see you too, Rachel, but maybe it would be better if we did this outside," said Hob, briskly taking his leave of her. As soon as he was gone, Rachel pulled on her clothes as quickly as possible and followed after him, still blushing. Once outside, they shared a laugh and hugged each other again, this time with much more emotion.

"I'm so glad you're alright," said Rachel, happy beyond words. "It's so good to have you back."

"It's good to be back," said Hob, who truly appreciated her concern. "I only wish things were alright, but it's not so yet. Have you forgotten, Rachel? We're dreaming."

Her eyes widening with realization, Rachel backed away from Hob, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. "No. No! Damn it, it's not fair!" she screamed. "What happened, Hob? Where are you really?"

"I'm not really sure," said Hob, trying to remember. "One moment I was walking into my flat, pissed off at John for dealing me nothing but bad hands all night. Next moment, I hear glass breaking, and I'm out for the count. Then I wake up in a hidden jail cell somewhere in London."

"London?" asked Rachel, the wheels of her thought processes visibly turning as often happened in dreams. "So John was on the right track. Did he find you?"

"I'm afraid he did," said Hob, who understood only too well how precarious John's situation was. "They were never really after me. I was just bait to lure John in, and now they've got him right where they want him."

"Do you think he'll be alright?" pleaded Rachel, stepping forward to hold Hob close. "Will you be alright?"

"I honestly don't know," said Hob, who was beginning to wonder whether life as he knew it would soon be over. "I've seen John pull off some unbelievable bluffs over the years, but I'm not sure if he'll be able to get out of this one. I just don't know."

Over the centuries, he'd come to understand that he was still alive because Death wouldn't take anyone who saw no point in death and truly wanted only to live. According to John, however, Death was no longer in residence, having abandoned her realm over some business he was better off not knowing. Did that mean that if Patterson killed him now, he would stay dead?

Holding onto Rachel just that much more tightly, Hob tried to take comfort in the fact that he'd lived a very full life, that his death would leave loved ones like Rachel and Byron more than comfortable financially. Still, he had always assumed that if he ever did die, it would be at a time and place of his own choosing. It more than irked Hob that a worthless bastard like Patterson might be the one to rob him of that privilege.

"Death's a mug's game," whispered Hob, repeating the words that had become his personal mantra for living.

"Death's a mug's game," repeated Rachel, and the words were enough to renew some small sense of hope.

* * *

HOW CAN I BE SO CERTAIN THAT JOHN WILL RETURN THE VICTOR? IN ALL HONESTY, IT'S DIFFICULT TO EXPLAIN. JOHN'S CHOSEN LIFESTYLE DOES LITTLE TO INSPIRE CONFIDENCE, BUT I FIND MYSELF BELIEVING IN HIM ANYWAY. WHY? BECAUSE JOHN REFUSES TO BE BEATEN, AND NEVER DOES ANYTHING WITHOUT SOME PURPOSE BEHIND IT, EVEN IF IT SEEMS INCREDIBLY STUPID. AND LIKE ANY GOOD MAGICIAN, HE ALWAYS KEEPS ONE LAST TRICK HIDDEN UP HIS SLEEVE...

* * *

**Western Eurasia: London, Parliament**

A tense silence filled the room as John and Gabriel engaged in a petty contest of wills. All others present kept quiet out of fear, but the fallen archangel and the most hated man did so purely out of spite. The silence was finally broken by a soft chuckle from John at Gabriel's expense, dry, hoarse, and slightly mad.

"Where is it? What have you done with my heart?" shrieked Gabriel, forcing all but the other angels to hold their hands to their ears.

"_Gone..._" muttered John, his eyes closed, steeling himself for more punishment to come.

"Gone? What do you mean gone?" exclaimed Gabriel in complete outrage, shaking clenched fists. "What did you do with it? Barter it in exchange for the immortality you now enjoy? Piss in it and feed it to one of your enemies? What have you done with my heart?"

Ignoring Gabriel's tirade, John just continued muttering to himself. "_Gone o form of man..._" he said, apparently delirious. It was a good performance, and it fooled everyone but Harry, whose cigarette fell out of his mouth.

"What in creation are you blabbering about?" exclaimed Gabriel, angered by the thought that John was attempting to play games with him.

"_Arise the demon..._" continued John, opening his eyes and directing his gaze squarely at Gabriel, who finally comprehended the danger that he would soon be facing.

"You bastard..." whispered Gabriel, backing away nervously, his angelic bodyguards closing around him.

"_Etrigan!_" yelled John, his teeth bared, blood staining his lips.

Prompted by the utterance of that unholy name, John's body began to convulse, reshaping itself into a much larger form. His skin became dry and yellow, hot to the touch, and his fingers extended into claws capable of ripping through the hardest of metals. His trench coat reformed into a tattered blue cape, and the rest of his clothing reformed into a simple suit of red.

In no time at all, John Constantine was no more, his presence replaced by that of a creature out of nightmare, the first demon ever born to hell.

_"Are you surprised by this merry scene_  
_Crafted by this rascal, Constantine?_  
_A perfect match, this twisted one_  
_For hell's first foremost favored son!"_

Ripping through the cell's force fields with the greatest of ease, Etrigan moved on to claw into the nearest angel. Too stunned to mount a proper defense, the angel was nothing more than a mass of blood and shredded flesh in less time than it took for Etrigan to complete his first rhyme.

The two remaining angels were not quite so slow, and flaming swords instantly appeared in their hands as Gabriel made his escape, fading from view. "This isn't over..." he said, unwilling to risk himself even though the odds remained in his favor.

_"Gone so soon? Coward you are!_  
_This mortal shell is braver by far!_  
_You've gone and ruined Etrigan's fun_  
_Better to fight than to cut and run!"_

Etrigan easily sidestepped the slicing arc of the first angel's flaming sword as he breathed a gout of searing flame at his face, blinding him and marring his perfect beauty. Bringing his claws to bear, the Demon severed the angel's arm at the elbow while his other clawed hand claimed the flaming sword that it held.

Raising it to block an overhead strike by the other angel, Etrigan smoothly reversed the direction of his strike to lop off the head of the now blind angel. Terrible in his wrath, the remaining angel attacked the Demon with renewed vigor. No longer paralyzed by fear, Patterson's security forces foolishly joined in the battle, meeting swift deaths at the hands of an eldritch blast from Etrigan's free hand.

_"What great fools these mortals be_  
_But no more fool than this angel I see!_  
_Your master has fled, the battle is won!_  
_Wouldn't you call this skirmish done?"_

Too wise to even consider the possibility that Etrigan might spare him, the last angel pressed his attack as Etrigan wasted time dealing with Patterson's men. A deft strike dislodged the flaming sword from the Demon's hands, and it seemed that he was now all but helpless.

Confident of his victory, the angel paused momentarily before making the deathblow, and that was his final mistake. From out of nowhere, Etrigan produced a gun, an ancient six-shooter whose design was more than two centuries old. As he pulled the trigger, a blast of divine retribution struck the angel square in the chest, opening a cavity larger than his head, killing him instantly.

_"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"_

Listening to Etrigan's triumphant laugh, Patterson soiled himself and collapsed to his knees. Charles had already fainted dead away, and Endicott was strangely nowhere to be seen. Even so, the Demon ignored them completely, focusing his attention on Harry, the only person he still considered a threat.

"So I'm next, is that it?" asked Harry, who was truly afraid for his unlife despite the flippant remark. "Is a few months hunting down one of my descendants all I get?"

_"No more lies! Etrigan knows!_  
_The stench of hell has reached my nose_  
_So worry not, down is my gun_  
_Letting you live will be more fun!"_

And with that, Etrigan bowed gracefully, holding his cape. Not really sure why he'd been granted a reprieve, Harry didn't question it. Taking his cue from the Demon, he began speaking the words that would banish him again for a time.

"Gone, the Demon, Etrigan  
Return again o form of man."

Instantly, Etrigan's form darkened and seemed to shrink in upon itself, returning to the familiar form of John Constantine. A few moans and groans escaped his lips, but otherwise, his body was completely healed, his injuries little more than yet another painful memory.

"Let you live, did he?" asked John, in desperate need of a cigarette. "Bollocks, what's the world coming to if you can't trust a demon to do your killing for you?"

"What did you expect?" asked Harry in return, kind enough to pass John a fag and give him a light. "Even demons won't turn against their own, not without good reason. If only us Constantines could be as loyal to each other. Anyway, how'd you end up with Etrigan bound to your soul? It saved your arse this time, but you can't think this a good thing."

"I don't, and I regret it already," said John, staring at his cigarette. "Happened quite a while back. Etrigan needed to bind himself to another human soul, otherwise both him and Jason would be dead. Jason was long gone and didn't want to be found, and he needed a soul already tainted by hell and tied to Merlin somehow. I was the only one what fit that bill."

"And you agreed?" asked Harry, incredulously, unsure what to make of it.

"Wasn't really given much of a choice," said John, with distaste it seemed, "and time was running out. I'm stuck with Etrigan until that wanker, Blood, can be found. And now that I've let Etrigan out once, I'm going to have to look that much harder."

"It's just like you to help out some strange demon and screw family," said Harry, obviously hacked off.

"What are you complaining about?" asked John, savoring a drag. "I gave you what you asked for, all those years ago," he said, referring to a time just prior to the eruption of the conflict now raging between Heaven and Hell in the Afterlife. "You begged me to sneak you out of hell and find you a new body on earth. Done."

"Not exactly new, you wanker," said Harry, mildly irritated. "Bollocks! You stuck me in a body buried six feet under, a rotting corpse at that!"

"What did you expect? Bodies magicked enough to hold a demon aren't that easy to come by," countered John, doing what he could to hide an impish grin. "Besides, it's always easier if it's family. Harry's body was the best I could do on short notice, and you'd think even my demon half could show a little gratitude."

"It'll be a cold day in hell before that happens," said Harry, revealed to be in truth the Demon Constantine. "And call me Harry. I've gotten used to it. Still, I'll consider us even if you tell me what you did with the Snob's heart."

"Trust me, you don't want to know," said John, who couldn't quite suppress a chuckle.

"What's so damned funny..." began Harry when understanding dawned upon him, and he raised a hand to his own chest. "You didn't..."

"Last I saw the real Harry, I'd cut off his head with a spade," said John, shrugging his shoulders. "Takes a lotta power to reanimate a corpse that old without a head. I made do with what I had available."

"Bloody hell."

Ignoring John, Harry moved towards Patterson as fast as he could. Taking his head in his hands, Harry twisted Patterson's neck using his supernatural strength, leaving him dead before he even knew what Harry was about. He'd been a useful pawn to date, but he couldn't be allowed to live, knowing now where Gabriel's heart had been hidden.

"This isn't over," said Harry, and with that, he was off and running.

"Don't I know it," said John, walking towards Hob's cell. Pressing some controls on the wall panel, he deactivated its force fields and other various systems completely. Almost instantly, Hob awoke, seemingly surprised to find that he was still alive.

"Is it over?" asked Hob, surveying the damage and letting out a low whistle when his gaze turned to the corpses of the angels. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm better off not knowing. Can we go home now?"

"As soon as you want," said John, helping him up, "but I won't be going back with you. Try to explain it to everyone if you can, especially Barnabas, Rachel, and Byron. Hate to cut and run, but it just isn't safe to go back just yet. I don't fancy any of this happening again."

"Nor do I," agreed Hob, following John out. "It won't be easy explaining why you won't come back, but they'll be glad to know that you're alright. Still, I'd really like to know how you did it. The rescue, I mean. It seemed hopeless."

"Nothing much," said John as he led Hob out of the hidden subterranean complex. "Just something I promised myself I'd never do."

Together, they made their escape through tunnels that John had already walked long before the first Patterson met his demise over a century ago, leaving Charles the only survivor of his latest struggle with that family. Would the cycle continue? Only time would tell.

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #10_ -


	11. New Faces & Old Places

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #11**

_"New Faces & Old Places"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Jason Tippitt

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

"No, Geraldo, I don't think that's going to work..." said Hob, stifling a yawn. He'd been missing for less than a month, but an amazing amount of work can pile up when you're the head of a world-wide conglomerate like Hobbes Enterprises. "You need proof, not just plausible theories."

"But it makes perfect sense," said Geraldo, who would never let an idea for an expose go, no matter how farfetched it might sound. "If you assume that this new Batman was genetically engineered by the Justice League, then it follows that they would have used a combination of genetic material from the original Batman and his arch nemesis, the Joker, to create him..."

The holovid connection automatically compensated for elevated decibel levels, but Hob could still tell that Geraldo was quite agitated. Hob would have just laid down the law with any other writer, but Chung was his most popular holo-novelist, not to mention a good friend.

"...How else would you create the ultimate Batman but by combining the best traits of the original hero and his greatest foe? How else would you account for the stupid risks that this new Batman is taking, not to mention the irreverent sense of humor, the recklessness...?" continued Chung, building up steam.

"Very convincing, but I'm not running any stories even remotely related to the Justice League without substantiation of some kind," said Hob, trying to look sympathetic for Geraldo's benefit. "Get me some proof, and we'll talk. I promise."

And with that, Hob cut the connection, collapsed over his desk and groaned audibly.

"Another one of those days?" asked Rachel, who didn't understand why anyone as wealthy as Hob would bother to do any work himself. The fact that he did was one of many reasons why she respected him as much as she did.

"Every day since I got back," said Hob, looking bleary-eyed. "Not only do I have to keep Chung in line, I also have yet another visit from Detective Bradley to look forward to. No doubt, he wants to quadruple-check my story. Not only that, I've also got a small mountain of emails, fruit baskets, singing holograms, and hand-written letters to sort through from one Kieran O'Kennedy, who's begging me to bring Guinness to New Coast City."

"Well, why don't you?" asked Rachel, who found many of Hob's business decisions somewhat questionable. "You'd make a much bigger profit if you just sold it by the case in the supermarkets."

"None of that," said Hob, leaning back and propping his feet up on the desk. "Guinness was meant to be sold in kegs and served in pints from pubs that have a sense of community, not swilled by closet alcoholics. I'll bring it to New Coast City when I find a pub there worthy of it."

"Well, it's your profit," said Rachel, smiling. It never ceased to amaze her how easily Hob could shrug off the potential for billions of credits in sales. "Um... I don't suppose you've had any word from John?"

"Not even so much as a charge on his expense account," said Hob, who'd hoped she'd have gotten over John by now. "Sorry, Rachel."

"Don't be," said Rachel, forcing a smile. "It's not like I've been waiting by the phone or anything..."

Her use of TwenCen colloquialisms was improving, but Hob could tell by the way she trailed off that she wasn't being entirely truthful. John could be a right bastard at times. No one needed to remind Hob of that, but perhaps someone should have reminded him to warn Rachel.

"Well, don't expect him to call," said Hob, staring at the holo-monitor as if something very important had just crawled into view. "He's not that sort. More often than not, he'll just show up on your doorstep without calling if you get my meaning."

"I do," said Rachel, who knew only too well what Hob was talking about. An honest smile was on her lips, but it was impossible to tell whether it was one of sadness or happiness.

**Western Eurasia: London, the Cambridge Club**

For months, the most exclusive gentleman's club in Western Eurasia had been rampant with rumor and gossip about the circumstances surrounding the mysterious death of one of its members. Lord Charles Patterson IV, the former U.N. Representative for that territory was now dead, but had he been assassinated by Patriot upstarts, as the Justice League claimed? Or had he actually been removed from power by a political rival? Could that political rival have been his own son?

Many continued to wonder, but few had the nerve to directly question their newest members, who no doubt knew exactly what had happened. Many eyed them warily over their glasses of champagne, but few dared to speak with them directly, lest Patterson's fate befall them as well.

"So how's the kid taking it?" asked Harry, taking a swig of his gin and tonic. "It's been a couple of months already. Is he any better? Any change?"

"I'm afraid young Charles is not quite the man his father was," said Simon Endicott, who had formerly been Patterson's ever-present aide, up until the time of his demise. "I doubt that he ever will be, either."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing, now is it?" asked Harry, downing the rest of his drink. "His old man thought he could get somewhere by kissing an angel's boots, but that's a quick road to nowhere. Real power is something you take, not have given to you."

"Is that so?" asked Simon, steepling his fingers before him in a manner consistent with that of his previous employer. "Others might argue that power is power, regardless of how it is acquired."

"Fat lot of good it does any of them," said Harry, snapping his fingers to order another round. "Neither a borrower nor a lender be, mate. Otherwise, you spend your whole life in payback, one way or another. Anyway, how goes the search for Gabriel's heart?"

"Nothing but dead ends, I'm afraid," said Simon, looking dismayed. "It's doubtful that anyone but Constantine knows of its whereabouts. Needless to say, that route is no longer a viable option, what with Etrigan's involvement. Quite a surprise that, eh? Still, we are attempting to broach the matter from another angle."

"Really? And what exactly might that be if you don't mind my asking?" inquired Harry, his eyes narrowing.

"We've heard through very reliable sources that Constantine acquired Lord Gabriel's heart through the aid of his demonic counterpart," said Simon, hoping that this was more than just a rumor. "It's believed that he may know something of the heart's whereabouts."

"Demonic counterpart?" asked Harry, trying to seem genuinely curious. "Are you talking about Etrigan?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Naturally, you wouldn't know," said Simon, who'd forgotten how long it had been since Harry had last walked the earth. He had adapted to the 22nd century surprisingly well. "It's an involved tale, but Constantine has a demonic double, which he created via his own magic. This double, the Demon Constantine as he's been called, stole the reformed heart of Gabriel from the First of the Fallen shortly before this war between heaven and hell began."

"No doubt this Demon Constantine had no idea how significant the heart truly was," said Harry, who still couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. "Any leads?"

"Not yet, but something will turn up eventually," said Simon, allowing himself some small measure of hope. "Something always does."

"Yeah, I suppose that's true," said Harry, who suddenly found himself wishing that he'd never been removed from his ancestor's grave.

**NorAm: New York City, Central Park**

Several months had passed since Barnabas had last walked through Central Park. Ever since he'd gotten mixed up with John and Hob, he'd become accustomed to living in luxury, safe within the protective walls of Hobbes Tower and the Waldorf Astoria. Sad to say, this meant he'd also largely ignored his other friends and hadn't so much as said hello to any of them for far too long.

As he'd feared, most of his former friends were now long gone. It had been a harsh winter so far, and most of the homeless dogs roaming the streets of New York would have headed south long ago. Under normal circumstances, Barnabas would have left with them, but he'd been too busy with his new friends to bother with them anymore.

"I'd better start watching myself, or else I might end up like John," he said to no one in particular.

Barnabas felt terrible about it, awful really, and it made him feel even worse that he was only now looking for them because he needed assistance. John was long gone, and he probably wouldn't be back anytime soon. In the meantime, it was his job to look after Byron and Rachel, protect them from anyone who might want to get at John through them.

The list of potential enemies was fairly long, and too many of them had supernatural ties. For all of his many talents, Barnabas couldn't really do much to counter their efforts, and that encounter on the play level the previous month still had him spooked. He needed help, and he needed the supernatural kind. Petey was the only dog he knew that fit the bill.

Barnabas had always thought Petey an undignified name for a dog, but he supposed it suited his friend well enough. Besides which, he wasn't really a dog, just a demon who spent most of his time in canine shape. If nothing else, he had good taste, and with any luck, he would still be around, watching over the homeless and doing what he could to keep them safe in his little corner of the park...

"Do my eyes deceive me? Am I seeink vhat I think I'm seeink?" said what appeared to be an ordinary dog, lying in a burrow near a tree. "Barnabas, my old friend, it has been too long, but of course you are velcome. Please, come in out of the cold. Ve have much to be talkink about, yes?"

He wasn't much in terms of power as far as demons go, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"It has been too long, old friend," said Barnabas, mildly ashamed. "I'm afraid I've been neglecting too many of my old friends, especially you."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Petey, taking on his demonic form. Few people wandered around Central Park in the dead of winter, and no one was around to notice. Despite the claws, fangs, horns, and wings, he looked quite friendly and seemed surprisingly amicable. "It has not been so long for ones such as ve, who are livink so much longer than most. How are you, my old friend? How can I be helpink you?"

"Is it that obvious?" asked Barnabas, wincing. "I guess I'm not much of a friend, coming to visit only in time of need. My manners used to be much better. I am sorry, but I do need your help."

"No apologizinks, please," said Petey, a broad grin on his face. "I am happy just to be seeink you again, and I am most happy to be helpink in any vay I can. You have only to ask, my friend. What problem is it that you are havink?"

Barnabas hardly knew where to begin. Should he start with his relationship with the most hated man or the angel he'd helped murder? Or should he start with the witch boy he'd most recently chased away?

"It's a long story so I suppose I should start at the beginning."

**NorAm: Washington, D.C.**

John Constantine had fled London at the earliest opportunity, a bit too early for his tastes. He wasn't sorry to leave, mind you. After all, the city held more bad memories for him than good, and most of the people he'd once known there were now dead. Still, he would miss being able to buy his Silk Cut, and the few cartons he'd been able to take with him wouldn't last long.

"Damn Hob and his ethics against peddling smokes, anyway," said John, putting a fag in his mouth and lighting it. Becoming more relaxed almost immediately, he allowed himself to ignore his many worries somewhat. Harry was no doubt busy planning something suitably nasty for him, something that would be enacted through third or fourth parties, and he could feel Etrigan's influence growing stronger within him. Having called upon him, it would now be that much harder to keep him in check. Indeed, the sooner he tracked down Jason Blood, the better.

The neighborhood was no longer quite as posh as he'd remembered it, but the mansion he'd finally reached hadn't changed much at all. Wintersgate Manor was just as dignified as he'd remembered it, and no doubt, Baron Winters was just as enigmatic as ever.

John forced himself to suppress a chuckle, thinking about Winters and his exile to this mansion, surrounded by portals through time and space with no means of exploring them himself. In the past, he'd amused himself far too much at Winters' expense, and it wouldn't be easy getting the bastard to help him out now. Even so, Winters was still his best shot at finding Blood.

"Well, no use just standing here," said John, making his way to the front door of the manor. "Nothing for it but to knock and say hello."

Grabbing the antiquated door knocker, John rapped it hard, three times. "Winters! You in there? Open up!" he exclaimed, feeling certain that the Baron knew it was him and was keeping him waiting on purpose. After a suitably long wait and successive knocking, he finally got a response.

"Well, who would have guessed it," said a familiar voice through some unseen intercom system. "Could that possibly be John Constantine darkening my doorstep after all these years? And if so, what possible reason could he have for coming uninvited? Could it be that the redoubtable John Constantine needs my help?"

"Same old Winters," said John, blowing a puff of smoke at the door, hoping that it also hid the camera that Winters was looking through. "Now, if you'll stop being pompous for a minute, I'll tell you what I want. I'm looking for Jason Blood. Know where he is?"

"Somewhere intended to keep him from being found by the likes of you, I would imagine," said Winters, masterfully snide with his comments. "And it's my intention to keep things that way."

"Let me in, damn you!" exclaimed John, pounding on the door with his fist. "Let me in, or I'll smash this house down all around you!"

"How? By huffing and puffing?" asked Winters, not impressed. Constantine seemed surprisingly agitated, and he found himself wondering whether he couldn't be agitated further into doing something stupid. "And why, might I ask, are you rhyming?"

That did it. Just as John became completely red in the face, the door opened of its own accord, and he barreled through it. Disoriented by the change in brightness, his eyes quickly adjusted, but that served only to make him even more disoriented. Instead of finding himself inside the manor, John found himself outside and in the open air, only it was day where it had previously been night.

Looking around, people were dressed in fashions that were centuries old, and most everyone was speaking a foreign language that he thought was Italian. It took a few moments to get past his disbelief, but eventually, he put two and two together and started berating himself mentally for his own stupidity. He'd allowed Winters to get to him, and now he was stuck in another time and place, with no sure way of finding his way back.

"Bloody hell, not again..."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #11_ -


	12. God is My Girlfriend

_THE DCFutures Underground Fan Fiction group acknowledges that DC Comics owns the concepts behind John Constantine and all DC characters that may be used here. These concepts are used WITHOUT permission for NO PROFIT, but rather a strong desire to peer into the future of the DC Universe. However, the original concepts presented here are the intellectual property of the author._

**HELLBLAZER:DCF #12**

_"God is My Girlfriend"_

Written by David Lee  
Edited by Rob Nott

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

"I guess old habits die hard," said Rachel, sitting within the deepest recesses of Hob Gadling's penthouse apartment. Hob was away on business, and she was apartment sitting, as always. Of course, she hadn't expected to find herself rummaging through all of his private things like bandit, but old habits die hard, as she'd just said aloud to an empty room.

Some of her oldest memories consisted of secretly sifting through other people's belongings: their books, their possessions, and ultimately, their lives. It was a bad habit, one neither nice nor polite, and as an attorney, she knew it to be illegal as well.

Still, Rachel could never quite help herself. She knew that Hob probably wouldn't mind, and doing it made her feel better. In some ways, doing this made her feel as if she were Byron's age again, full of wonder and glee, with little idea what true unhappiness felt like. And most important of all, it kept her thoughts away from John, and what had become of him, why he hadn't returned.

Almost two years had passed, and still there had been no word, one way or another. Was he dead? Had he ever truly cared about her? Hob had been less than forthcoming, saying only that John would return when he was ready and that he'd been in good health when they'd parted. Indeed, it might be more accurate to say that Hob might purposely have been being obtuse. These were the thoughts that haunted her, and she was well rid of them.

Moving from box to box, chest to chest, Rachel's hands made their way through hundreds of mementos, some no doubt worth several fortunes whereas others, perhaps, had only sentimental value. Eclectic yet grand, Hob's collection of belongings represented the culmination of centuries of living.

One box held a complete set of phonograph recordings by a band called the Beatles, most of them autographed, and above them hung a rack full of nothing but old bowling shirts. Next to that box sat a small chest full of old coins, with double eagles spread around casually like pennies and the more valuable florins and florentinos carefully preserved in mylar. And behind that was an old shoebox filled with nothing but Christmas ornaments, mostly handmade.

Impulsively, Rachel grabbed an old quilt folded neatly in the corner and hugged it to her chest, inhaling the scent of a woman's perfume mixed with the scent of a smoking fire. It was wonderful, walking through another's memories like this, especially memories as wonderful as Hob's. Indeed, it was almost magic.

Looking over the neatly arrayed rows of boxes, Rachel noted that they were all methodically packed, labeled, and sorted, some by date and others by content. All save one. Doing a double take, Rachel noticed that one small box lay completely unmarked, filled with odds and ends that defied any single categorization.

Intrigued, Rachel crawled her way towards the errant container, carefully sifting through its contents. Its contents included an ancient rapier that was practically rusted through, and an old pewter tankard bearing Hob's initials. A deck of ancient playing cards, well-faded, were held together with a rubber band, laying directly atop an ornate box that held a pair of dueling pistols.

Rachel could only imagine what memories these things must have held for Hob, no doubt both good and bad. Setting aside more objects she didn't even recognize, she reached down to the very bottom of the box, pulling out an old manuscript. The pages were yellowed with age, and the words upon them were written in a cursive style that no one in this age could hope to imitate.

Indeed, they were hand-written and practically impossible to decipher. Even so, the title of the manuscript was perfectly legible. 'Constantine' it read, and that was more than enough to send Rachel running off to find a translation holopad. As quickly as possible, she scanned the contents of the ancient pages into Hob's computer, translating them from Middle English into the language's modern form.

The entire process took only a few minutes, but to Rachel, they seemed more like hours. Perhaps even days. Even so, the end result was well worth the wait...

* * *

CONSTANTINE: A Play in Five Acts by Bill Shaxberd

_PROLOGUE_

[A tavern in Florence.]

{Enter Two Gentlemen}

FIRST GENTLEMAN

How cursed is the student too poor of means  
To slake his thirst with Bacchan nourishment  
Will no Florentine rescue me from want?

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Speak to me no more of curses meager  
And a Londoner shall be thine savior  
If you woulds't drink with this impoverished soul,  
Then foul mine ears no more with talk of curse  
Sit, friend, and let me forget such troubles.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

Thou speak'st plain of things infernal bent  
Witchery and dealings frightful and foul  
As if the devil truly walked the land  
Surely, Englishmen know such tales to be  
No more than Alexander's papal rants  
Meant to fill his coffers, lay low his foes.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

'Tis true, the devil hath made Rome wealthy  
With its enemies lying ashen burned  
Mere tales doth win great lands and slay great men  
Mere voices raised win trials without account  
But heed this well; a devil doth exist  
He haunts my steps and would'st bring down  
All who bear my name or would'st call me friend  
So have thy drink and flee whil'st thou still may.

FIRST GENTLEMAN

I merely drink with thee, not call thee friend  
And I would'st have another drink besides  
Gentlemen take each other at their word  
But a student requires proof of claims  
So wild as to require further drink  
Tell me more; prove that a devil exists,  
And I shall call thee master thrice over.

SECOND GENTLEMAN

Then listen well; a tale most infamous  
I shall tell of a family noble-born  
Who in God's name doth Satan's scheme advance.

{Exeunt}

* * *

Rachel was just about to begin reading Act I when she was interrupted by the sound of an incoming call. Reluctantly, she answered it, activating the comm in her Rolex, a gift from Hob.

"Hello? Yes, this is Rachel Walker. Byron's school? Is something wrong? Has something happened? Oh, I see. Yes, I'll come down right away."

Rachel had noted the strange behavior that had overcome her son in recent weeks, ever since John disappeared, a strange curiosity about all things religious, in particular all things Judeo-Christian. Apparently, her son's school had noticed as well, enough to make it an issue. And it really was a problem that she should have addressed long before now.

Quickly, she downloaded the translated manuscript into her watch and grabbed her purse. Returning the manuscript to where she found it, she made sure that everything was back in its proper place before exiting Hob's apartment.

**Western Eurasia: London**

Just on the outskirts of King's College lies a small house boasting a Victorian style of architecture. Largely assumed to be the home of one of the university's professors, it is actually the home of a U.N. employee who provides special services on behalf of high-level government officials, in particular Lord Charles Patterson IV, the U.N. representative for all of Western Eurasia, and now to his son, Lord Charles Patterson V. His name is Simon Endicott.

His rise to power within official channels remains something of a mystery, largely due to his ability to remain hidden in the shadows, to inspire fear in his enemies, and to do so unobtrusively. His services are valued as much for his ability as for his discretion, the latter a quality that most special operatives lack. Many envied him his success, and many more would have given much to know the secret behind that success.

Simon Endicott had many secrets, and his home was no different. Hidden beneath the house were multiple sub-levels with stainless steel walls, and the most advanced security systems available to modern technology, not to mention modern mysticism. And hidden away in the deepest recesses of this private fortress was the secret behind his resourcefulness, the source of his power.

The austere halls reverberated with the sound of his footsteps and hummed with the telltale static of electrical current running through them. Finally, he reached his destination, a vault with walls made from a specially-engineered transparent metal that emitted its own natural energy, a nearly-blinding white light. And locked within this vault was a dark and seemingly lifeless thing, twisted and bent. It's difficult to see through the light, but with effort, more detail can be discerned, enough to tell that it is not a thing but a person. In fact, it is a man. And it is not so much a vault as it is a prison.

"Do you hate me? Do you wish me dead? Do you still yearn to return to your precious Opal?"

Laughter rang through the lifeless halls, but it could not be heard by the dark genie trapped within the strange, man-made lamp that held him captive, that held his powers captive for use by his keeper. Lovingly, he traced his fingers across the arcane symbols engraved into the outside of this cage, and he spoke to the still, unmoving figure with his lips pressed against it. No sound passed from without to within, but Simon Endicott cared not as he knew only too well the thoughts and motivations of his ill-used slave and well gloried in his power over him.

"Hate me all you wish. Demand vengeance as you will. But you will never be free."

**NorAm: New York City, Cathedral**

The city of New York had retained many historic sites that long predated the twencen, and of these, many considered Cathedral to be the most impressive. And with the Statue of Liberty now lying in ruins, few could gainsay them. It was in these halls that Reverend Georges Thiers maintained his offices and where he counseled those having crises of faith. In these cynical times, true faith was becoming more and more of a rarity, and he considered it his duty to do whatever he could to maintain it wherever it existed.

More often than not, the only people in New York who retained faith in anything, let alone the existence of God, were children. As such, Reverend Thiers had made his counsel available to all of the local schools. Every child could be expected to go through a crisis of faith. After all, if you let them know that Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are merely figments of their imagination, then only the simplest of them would not extend that logic to include the concept of God. And only in the rarest of cases did anything more serious require his attention in this regard.

"Good morning, Sir," said Byron, who couldn't help fidgeting a bit. The chair was just a little too big for him, such that his feet dangled above the floor, and all of the very old and thick books and religious antiquities disturbed him quite a bit. Many of them were quite graphic, displaying the figure of Christ in scenes of bloody anguish, and his discomfort was more than justified. "Are you having a nice day, Sir?"

Byron was anything but impolite on most occasions, but he was being extra polite today. This morning, his teacher had had a surprise for him, a most unpleasant surprise. All smiles, she'd told him that he was going to go pay a visit to Cathedral and speak with one of the priests there. She'd been concerned about him, about some of the things he'd said at school, and about some of the things that the other children had been saying about him. Byron didn't have to ask to know what she was talking about. And now, here he was in the office of Father Georges Thiers.

Byron had heard her mother talking about him while she was preparing Uncle John's case for trial. A renowned exorcist, his understanding of the occult and the supernatural was said to be without peer, and here Byron was sitting in his office. What was he here for? To have a demon exorcised from him? Was that why he could understand what Barnabas could say? Was that why his mother spent so little time with him? Was that why... why John had abandoned him and fled without a word?

Naturally, these were all ridiculous notions, but they were the horrifying thoughts that occupied a young boy's mind when he was unexpectedly placed in this kind of situation. But another possibility was also tugging at the back of his mind. This man was a priest, what he had perceived for most of his life to be God's emissary. Had he, perhaps, called him here to speak to him on God's behalf? Was she not displeased with him? After all these months, did she want him back?

Such were the unreasonable hopes that a young boy had when placed unexpectedly into such an unusual situation.

"A very nice day," said Father Thiers, folding his hands upon his lap and smiling down upon Byron, a strangely cherubic smile. "I hope you're not too uncomfortable. You're not in any trouble, and there's no need for you to be nervous. I just want to talk, and your teacher just wants you to talk to me. She's worried about you, Byron. She's very worried, and she wouldn't have sent you here unless she thought I could help."

"I'm not nervous," said Byron, the lie coming easily to him. After all, it was the polite thing for him to say, and he was a very good boy. His teacher had told him so on many an occasion. "But why is my teacher worried about me? Did I do something wrong? Did someone say I did something wrong?"

Father Thiers smiled down at the boy, the very model of patience and understanding. He liked all children, of course, but he naturally preferred the ones that were polite, intelligent, and had the decency to call him 'Sir.' He considered it something of an eccentricity, not a conceit, although his age had made this distinction easier to make.

"No, young Mr. Walker, you didn't do anything wrong, and you're not in any trouble," said Father Thiers, smiling politely as the light of the room reflected off of his bald head. Byron couldn't help but stare although he quickly turned his eyes back to the priest's face, knowing that it was impolite to stare at such things. "So please stop fidgeting. Your teacher and I are just... concerned. Concerned about your moral well-being. That's all."

"Concerned about what, sir?" asked Byron, beginning to feel uncomfortable again. He already had a good idea where this was going, and he had no one to blame for his current predicament but himself, which essentially made it all that much worse.

"I'm talking about these stories you've been telling at school," began Father Thiers, his brow furrowing. "About having met God? About how God appeared to you as a little girl in the park? And about how God is your girlfriend? Yes, we are very concerned about these stories that you've been telling to the other children, very concerned indeed. Do you have anything to add, Mr. Walker?"

"It was on play level, sir. Play level at Hobbes Tower. Not in the park," clarified Byron, a bit sheepishly. He could tell from his tone that Father Thiers didn't believe that he'd encountered God, and Byron had the feeling that he'd be difficult to convince. But he refused to lie, even if it got him into more trouble. His mother wouldn't want him to lie. God wouldn't want him to lie, no matter what.

"I see," said Father Thiers, his eyes narrowing. The boy was beginning to try his patience. Perhaps he was just a small boy, but his words were blasphemous. And even a child should know better. "And what makes you so certain that this girl you supposedly met this one time was God?"

"Because she said so, sir," offered Byron, his eyes still downcast. The words sounded strange to even Byron, but he wasn't about to recant. He was telling the truth. "And it was more than just the one time, sir."

"Oh?" queried Father Thiers, raising an eyebrow. "Well, this I hadn't heard. And just where and when do you meet?"

"In my dreams, sir. In my dreams."

**Western Eurasia: London, The Estate of Lord Patterson**

Hidden in the Cotswolds, halfway between Bath and Chipping Campden lay what was widely regarded as the single most beautiful private estate in all of Western Eurasia. Pristine in its naturaly beauty, the estate boasted every luxury one could imagine, including courses for golf and fields for equestrienne pursuits. It was more like luxury resort than a private estate. Once one of the prime tourist attractions in all of the British Isles, the entire area was now reserved for the private enjoyment of a single family, and now a single man.

Lord Charles Patterson V sat alone in his empty mansion, a mansion that boasted over four hundred rooms. Soon after the funeral that had been held for his father on the estates, he'd sent all the servants and guests away, ostensibly to mourn. With the passing of his father, he'd been made Lord of the Estate, inheriting all that had once been his father's, including his seat in Parliament. Indeed, he'd been inundated with calls from false well-wishers for the past few weeks, and he'd desperately needed some time alone, time to grow into his new role.

Needless to say, it had been a very new experience for him. The most common everyday tasks were completely new to him, such as dressing himself in the morning, preparing his own meals, and bathing himself. Raised by servants his entire life, it had even taken him a few moments to find the handles on the toilet and bidet respectively. Completely alone for the first time in his life, it was only natural that he should start talking to himself, being alone in such a large and empty place.

"Yo-del-e-hee-hoo!"

Patterson listened as the sound of his voice carried through the entire mansion, echoing back to him gracefully. He found himself turning left and right to be sure that he was alone, that no one was listening, scratching at five days growth of beard as he did so.

"I suppose I must be going a bit daft. Not surprising in this creepy old place. Nothing but ghosts all over the place."

Completely oblivious to the fact that security were still present on the borders of the estate, watching his every move on various holo-monitors. Collectively, they shook their heads. Young Patterson was not his father, and they tended to doubt that he would ever properly fill his father's shoes. All in all, they were simply grateful that he hadn't managed to injure himself, and that he was no longer running around without any clothes.

"Are you one of them then? Flitting about and criticizing my every move?"

Patterson spun himself wildly about, expecting to see his father's spirit lurking behind every corner, every object. He could practically see the disapproving glare. He could practically hear the angry bellow.

"Incompetent buffoon! Gutless, sniveling worm!"

These had been but a few of his late father's favorite belittling things to say in condemnation of him. His father had never managed to see him as anything other than naive and weak, a slave to his own emotions. He'd heard them all his life, and he could hardly countenance the possibility that he might never hear them again. Hanging his head, he could only stand there dully as his father's words echoed back to him in his own voice.

"You were a terrible father, you know. You've left me everything, your power, your position, and your title, but they say that the only thing a father truly needs to leave his son is a good example of how to be a man. Instead, you left me a good example of how to be a ruthless, dictatorial bastard son-of-a-bitch who thrives on power and hate."

Indeed, his late father had been the consummate image of a perfect British Lord. No doubt, his spirit would not rest easily until he became the same. And as suddenly as this thought occurred to him, a smile appeared unexpectedly on his face, a cruel and wicked smile.

"So be it."

* * *

ACT 1, SCENE 1

[The Vatican. The Pope's Chambers.]

{Enter Alexander and Cesare}

CESARE

How goes't the campaign 'gainst the savage  
In Amerigo's distant paradise?  
Hath they yet embraced the Lord and thy rule  
So loving and beneficent to all?

ALEXANDER

Concern thyself not with enterprises  
Beyond thy understanding or privilege  
Rome's will shall prevail without thine advice  
And better without so cease thy prattling.

CESARE

Apologies, father and eminence,  
But mine curiosity hath been piqued.  
'Tis rarely that I am called to thy side  
So far removed from mine own small estate.

ALEXANDER

So you discount my will and prattle on?  
How it pains me that mine son doth rebel  
Ever more concerned with his own affairs  
Than those of his great father, most holy.

CESARE

Only one father and not the other.  
Which father? He who sits before me here?  
Or he who sits before me, visage grim?  
For I love one father with all my heart.

ALEXANDER

Thou dost blaspheme before thy fathers both.  
You dare o'ermuch in thy bitterness.  
But on matters sore have I need of thee,  
Enow to spare thee for thine sister's sake.

CESARE

Sister? And what of the gap-toothed stripling?  
What need hath I of her or she of me?  
My father's work is no place for children.  
That I know and remember all too well.

ALEXANDER

Child no more, but woman grown, in full bloom.  
A beauty in eyes of both God and man,  
Blessed with virtues tantalizingly fair.  
The time hath arrived that vows be taken.

CESARE

To maintain that virtue, her father's prize?  
No surety is holy orders here,  
For others hath fallen in spite of them,  
And her treasured virtue might yet be lost.

ALEXANDER

A treasure not to be maintained but spent,  
A vow not to serve God, but her father.  
Its value shall only decrease with time,  
So I would see her wed, but not to God.

CESARE

If not to God then to whom shall she wed?  
Two betrothals lie already annulled.

ALEXANDER

Her husband shall Giovanni now be.

CESARE

My brother? An unforgiveable sin.  
But nay, you mean Sforza of Milan,  
Not the second Duke of fair Gandia.  
A worthy choice, an alliance fair sought.  
Will Milan agree to this proposal?

ALEXANDER

That I leave to you, my Cardinal son,  
For I shall be fair busy with matters  
Politic concerning my son, the Duke.  
I pray you understand his place and yours.

{Exeunt Alexander}

CESARE

If as matchmaker I am called to serve,  
Then so shall I practice as you deserve.  
But think not the Duke has thy favor won  
For I am most truly my father's son.

{Exeunt}

* * *

**NorAm: New York City, Hobbes Tower**

Rachel and Byron returned home in uncomfortable silence. The meeting with the school principal had been awkward, and the meeting with Father Thiers had been awkward as well, only moreso. Regardless of her status as an accomplished attorney, she still felt uncomfortable around certain types of authority figures, including principals and priests, a tendency shared by many single mothers.

"Do you want to talk about it?" asked Rachel, taking a seat next to her son on the couch. He looked so forlorn that she could barely restrain herself from taking him in her arms and covering him with kisses. "I'm not mad, I'm just concerned. Is something bothering you?"

"I know," said Byron, loosening his tie and leaning back to rest his head on the back of the couch with his face turned away from his mother. Being only nine years old, he had no idea how much this simple, reflexive action caused her pain. "I don't know what's wrong, Mom. I'm not sure if anything is wrong. I'm not sure what I know."

Even though she knew he wouldn't like it, Rachel patted her son's head, running her fingers through his hair. She couldn't help it. He looked so lost. He looked so sad and forlorn.

"Tell me. What's bothering you?"

"I'm not sure. Everything. Nothing. I talked to a priest today, but he didn't have any answers for me. All he did was question what I believed. And now I don't know what I believe anymore."

Rachel couldn't help pouting. It was a natural tendency she carried with her since she was Byron's age, the tendency to pout when she didn't know what else to do, what to say.

"Is this maybe about John?"

Byron continued to stare into space directly away from his mother. He'd flinched only just a little at his mother's touch, and even that had made him feel slightly ashamed. She was his mother. She loved him. And he was troubled to find that now that he was getting older, he no longer knew exactly how to love her back.

"Maybe. I don't know. Everything's different now that he's gone, and I wish he were here. I have questions. Questions about God. Questions about angels. Questions that I think he could answer. Do you think he believed in them, mom? Do you think he believed in angels?"

Unbidden, a smile graced Rachel's lips, and she laughed just a little in response to a memory. The laughter grew until it became a resonant and lively thing all its own.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. You just reminded me of something that John said to me one night before he went away."

Happy in the memory, Rachel leaned closer to Byron, forgetting for the moment any reason why she shouldn't do so.

"We were watching one of your uncle Hob's old holovids, a movie from the twencen called 'City of Angels.' It was a movie about angels who found mortal women so beautiful that they voluntarily fell from heaven so they could love them. John didn't like it much. He spent practically the whole time I was watching it complaining about the lead actor, Nicholas Cage. How ugly he was. How he didn't know how to kiss right. How he couldn't act his way out of a paper bag."

"Is he really that bad?"

"I didn't think so, but John really disliked him for some reason. I'm not sure why. Anyway, I liked it. It all just seemed so romantic, the idea that these perfect beings would give up heaven just for the love of a beautiful woman, and I asked John what he thought about it, whether he believed something like that could actually happen."

"And what did he say?"

Rachel's smile resurfaced. And instead of just saying what had happened, she decided to act it out, try to imitate John as best she could. Turning to Byron, she grabbed him forcefully the shoulders, looking deeply into his eyes. She did her best to make the expression on her face seem as shocked and distressed as possible. And she imitated his voice and accent as well as she could manage. It was more than enough to break the awful tension and return some childishly-carefree happiness to her unusually-introspective young son.

"Rachel... luv... you've figured out me secret."

- _End of HELLBLAZER:DCF #12_ -


End file.
